


Share Your Road

by keycchan



Series: and all i see are dark eyes [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Background Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, also most of the main cast and characters, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 148,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: Two hundred years later, Adust is a father swallowed and spat out into a new world, almost everything and everyone he's ever loved gone and left him behind. Now he has to traipse the wastes, looking for the last remaining family he's got to call his own. But this world is new, more dangerous, vicious and merciless.Fortunate, then, that RJ MacCready is there at his back.





	1. and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we loved

**Author's Note:**

> i just love these two so much ahahahhh. summary might change over time, and so might the rating when the delirious biznasties eventually surface much later in the fic. the writing does get better as the chapters roll on, as i figure out how to pace things better and figure out how to portray adust's character.
> 
> general note: there will be stuff. bad stuff, sad stuff, there's characters with depression, there's characters with trauma, so be warned as you go in. each chapter will be given it's own individual set of warnings when necessary, so be careful. take care of yourself.
> 
> basic story remains from the game, but there will be a lot of divergence for better story flow.
> 
> for point of reference, [this is Adust as seen in game](http://68.media.tumblr.com/d67fdde3c6c5c4d9497bcb378db2fca5/tumblr_ojh1v6GOzx1tu1q3to1_1280.png), and [this is a younger version of him that i drew a little while back.](http://68.media.tumblr.com/6d637676f792f03c064cbcbb3452eca2/tumblr_ornffit2yn1tu1q3to1_500.png)
> 
> i'm [ here on tumblr](keycchan.tumblr.com) where i draw stuff sometimes. adust has a tag!

It’s an almost full-day hike from Sanctuary down to Diamond City.

It might’ve taken faster, but there were some... hold ups, along the way. Both literally and figuratively. They’d left Sanctuary — himself and Preston — around 7:30 in the morning, after checking in on everyone, and throwing some supplies into their bag. As much ammo as they can scavenge and pick up, a few boxes of Sugar Bombs and pork ‘n beans, bottles of Nuka Cola and whatever purified water they can spare, among other things. A round or two around the perimeter of Sanctuary just to make sure. A check-in with Codsworth for any signs of hostile life around the area. Just in case.

( _He’d watched, too, as Preston almost shyly excused himself to say goodbye to the settlers. Had watched as he kissed Mama Murphy on the cheek while she smiled and told him not to worry about them, watched him wish the best to the Longs, who for once looked slightly hopeful. Watched, as he ducked away with Sturges to talk, in hushed whispers in the empty common bedroom of the designated communal workhouse, probably sure no one was watching them while they traded a quick goodbye. A squeeze on the shoulder. A kiss on the cheek, from Sturges to Preston that made the latter’s dark skin flush darker._

_“You know, you’d think they’d know better than to assume no one can see ‘em. What with there bein’ literal holes in the walls.” Mama Murphy suddenly quipped, syllables drawn long in the way she always does. Her milky eyes had turned to him, then, a smirk on her elderly lips. “Maybe you should teach ‘em some Old World privacy lessons. Sock on the doorknob. Posters over peepholes. Right, Adust?”_

_He’d felt like a voyeur, then, flushing red, and turned to bid farewell to Mama Murphy too, before stepping out into the morning sun._ )

After that it’d been a quiet journey, heading towards Diamond City. Hard to talk, what with how tremendously dangerous the world is, focused now on keeping his eyes alert and his body wary than making idle chatter. Harder still to talk when he's trying his best not to breakdown. Preston made an offhand comment here and there, explaining some tips on how the ‘Wealth works now, and how to get through places without dying. What plants are safe, what aren’t. How to cut up all kinds of animals for meat, ranging from the reasonable radstag to bloatflies, in case of emergencies. Already the past two nights before Adust’d sat down next to Preston, listening with his mouth pursed while Preston explained all the small and big things about the Wealth that had changed. What areas, what currencies, what things are of value now and what isn’t, compared to the world back then, before the bombs fell. He'd tried his best not to succumb to a meltdown mid-talk, feeling like he was caught in a nightmare he couldn't wake from. He still can't quite believe it, feels himself walking as if in a stupor.

( Suddenly, all the boxes of Nuka Cola caps he kept finding made a whole bunch of sense more. Which makes it a good thing that he has a habit of picking things up and keeping them, but it made all his time putting money in banks seem like a waste of time.

Like almost everything else he's done in the Old World.

He tries not to think about it. )

Walking through the heavy city area to Diamond City though, Preston kept small talk low and constant, pointing out anything that felt necessary to be pointed out. He was mostly just a guide, anyway, someone to watch Adust’s back while he guided the man into the Great Green Jewel. Adust knew the place like the back of his hand, but only before the bombs. Now? Now there are some roads he used to jog down that can’t be accessed anymore, covered in rubble and shrapnel poking out sharper than knives. There are buildings he used to have coffee in that he can’t walk into now without being shot full of holes by trigger-happy raiders or paranoid scavvers. That’s what Preston’s here to guide him away from. Show him the road, in return for the impromptu heroic rescue down at the museum, and the run down to Corvega's assembly plant (that'd nearly killed Adust, because he was fresh out of the vault and almost out of his mind with grief and loss and confusion.)

A guide didn’t mean there wouldn’t be any hold ups or detours, though. There was the issue at the Drumlin Diner that they got pulled into without warning just because they wanted a quick stop to grab some ammo. And then there was a _radiation storm_ , of all things, one that made him gape in both awe and terror as Preston dragged him by the sleeve back inside, just as lightning struck, the faint tingle of electricity and radiation in the air. And then there were raiders and scavvers, roaming around that had to be snuck around or quickly dispatched. And then there were feral dogs, radroaches, bloatflies, stingwings.

If Adust hated insects before the war, he hates them even _more_  now, and with more passion than he ever thought flies would deserve.

He feels like he's stuck in a dream. None of it seems real.

And none of this even factors in just... _being_  back, in the city he was born in. Was _raised_  in, got married in. Streets and alleys he used to duck into and roam in as a kid, shops he used to frequent, cafes and bars he used to work at before he joined the army. All of them, reduced to — to whatever _this_  is, now. Piles of rubble. Rusted and coming apart, crumbling before his eyes like a dream turning slowly into a nightmare. The sandwich shop he used to work at while he saved up money for a place to stay, now desolate, food rotted, floor covered in patrons who couldn’t escape the blast in time. The gourmet bakery he always wanted to visit, even as a wide-eyed and sticky-fingered street urchin of a kid, now completely uninhabitable, the ceiling caved in.

More than once, he’d been frozen. Staring, into places he used to wander, a ghost of him watching the ghosts of the place it used to be. Breath catching in his chest, tears burning like acid in his eyes, hands shaking like leaves in a hurricane. Always on the verge of breaking. Always feeling like he's a breeze away from melting into the conrete. Preston, God bless his soul, never said a word against it. Only stood by quietly, understanding, offering soft reassurances. Gently tapped his shoulder when Adust had stood too long, traipsing on the edge of being pulled under by memories of a place that had changed and people who didn’t exist anymore. Adust was grateful, though it was understandable. Preston would understand, if only a bare fraction of what it felt like.

The Minuteman had the same look in his eyes whenever Quincy was mentioned.

But all in all, they’d made it to Diamond City before nightfall. Which is great, all things considered. Even now, as they crouch behind a barricade on the path to Diamond City, caught in the gunfire between Diamond City guards ( _are those umpire uniforms?_ ) and supermutants. Pulled into another fray they never asked for.

“Take ‘em down!!” a Diamond City guard yells, before taking a bullet to the shoulder that makes him howl.

Adust coughs, as he half-jogs, half-ducks to inside the building, reloading his hunting rifle before unloading it on a supermutant who doesn’t see him. It roars, stumbling, and from somewhere behind him he sees a flash of red as Preston finishes the battle. The mutant gives an ugly, resounding bellow, before toppling down to the ground with an uglier thump-squelch. Silence follows after, and as he hears the guards start getting up again past the barricades, he squints, trying to make sure there’s no more movement in the buildings.

He desperately needs a proper sniper rifle again.

But with or without, the building seems clear enough, and the guards seem to find it acceptably empty too, judging by how they start heaving sighs of relief and backing off, nudging the injured to a corner to get the bullets removed and stimpak’d. In the meantime, Adust manages a quick jog in to scavenge for ammo and items. It doesn’t take him ten minutes. The place is more or less empty, the faint smell of decaying meat still penetrating his mask, but he manages a few quick finds. By the time he gets back to Preston — waiting on the Diamond City path, steadfast as always, looking tired and battered but no worse for the wear — the sun’s a little less than an hour from dipping.

“Got anything good?” the Minuteman asks, sweat prickling on dark skin as he jogs up. Adust eyes him, and pries his eyes away when he doesn’t see any major injuries, except for some scuffs and bruises that’d already been there. Good.

“Uh. Some ammo. Arm pieces.” he replies in turn. “No — no fusion cells though. Sorry.”

Preston shakes his head, a smile on his lips. Too kind for his own good. “It’s no problem, I still have enough in my pack to get me back to Sanctuary. Which I should head back to right about now.”

Adust furrows his brows. Not that Preston can see, given the gas mask he’s taken to wearing, but he’s sure the man can read into his pause at least. “Already?”

Preston nods. “Don’t worry, just follow the signs and you’ll get to Diamond City safe and sound. There are plenty of guards and turrets from here on out. You’ll be fine. Besides, the sun’s about to set, and it’s a few hours back to Sanctuary...” Adust can see the nervous shifting, the anxious waiting to get back to Sanctuary. Afraid, probably, that things might've changed for the worse in the half day he's been gone.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I understand. Thanks for, for guiding me here.” he offers.

“Get back to us in one piece, Adust.” Preston replies, all warm eyes and warmer smiles. “And good luck, finding your son.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the rubble of the Commonwealth to head home to Sanctuary, ridiculous cowboy hat and all. Adust watches, trained on the disappearing silhouette through lenses slightly cracked on one side, until the silhouette is gone and all he has left to see is the city around him, drowning in the tea-rose of the sky. The sun will dip back over the horizon soon. He hopes to make it to Diamond City before then, and find his son soon after. Or at least, any news about him. Anything, any sign. Just, anything. Mama Murphy had said this was where he should start looking. Said she could _feel_ his presence, that if he wanted to get started in finding Shaun that this would be definitely the place. It's one of the few things giving him hope. And if he was _really_  hopeful, maybe he’d even see his son somewhere in the city, maybe raised here to be a Wastelander like everyone else, happy with surviving and thriving in the new world. And then they can start again — find a way to adjust, somehow, to this new world he still can't quite believe he's in.

But Adust has never been good at being a major optimist. Not a pessimist either. just — a realist, with a weakness to family.

So he walks, follows the signs. Nods to the guards as he passes them by, doesn’t reply when they call him brave for helping them out with the supermutants. Even with the chugging turrets he passes by, he keeps his hold steady on his rifle.

He sees the shadow of the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth long before he realizes what it is. When he does, though, he nearly laughs, bitter and sour and strangled under the mask. Almost hysterical.

It’s Fenway Park. The _baseball_  park.

Great _Green_  Jewel.

Of course.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Diamond City is — it’s beautiful, in it’s own way. Not pre-war, certainly not, not by a _long_  shot, but it’s as close as it can get in the Commonwealth.

More life in one place than his past week in the Commonwealth. The wasteland is an array of faded colours and dull palettes, dust and ash surrounded by the long-worn and weary technicolour of the past, buried in dirt and lackluster. Half the things he’s seen have been dead and dead-looking, and even the not-so-dead look like they either ought to be or want to be. Depressing. Like being on a battlefield, except constantly. Though that is exactly what the Commonwealth is anyway, and he’s only been out above ground again for a _week._

But here, here it’s vibrant and colourful and _alive._  The walls are as green as they used to be, as they were back in the time when he was a kid and managed to sneak into a game for all of five minutes before being hauled out by security. Everywhere there are splashes of colour, shining even through the rust and dust. Neon signs like a vague reminder of a time back when, just a little less than a week ago for himself and two hundred over years for everyone else. And through all this, the distinct taste of Wasteland flavour. Homes and shops spackled together from anything that works, platforms built from where the stands once were, making new places to live. He sees a BBQ grill somewhere on someone’s roof. An entire trailer.

A city within a city. A home within a home.

More than that, there are _people_. Not nearly as much as there were before, but more than he’s seen thus far. Most interaction he’s had in the past week has been with all four settlers in Sanctuary, and then raiders, which he didn’t do much talking to. Walking here with Preston and all he’d seen in terms of life were the odd few scavvers and traders, and plenty of hostile wildlife. But here. Here he sees people everywhere, hustling and bustling, the sound of talking and movement welcome in his ears. He sees people gathered around the centre of the city, what looks like a food stand, brightly lit and inviting. More or scattered across the various stalls.

He’s used to bright lights in city nights, hiding in the shadows and watching the people pass by. Watching life in motion. And here, though it’s not what it used to be — it’s like coming home. Just so. Just almost.

Just enough to feel the gutpunching sour twist in his stomach, to look closer and know that it's still miles and miles away from the world he came from. (That he's not going back. He's not waking up.)

Inevitably, he gets snapped out of his stupor by one thing or another. In his case it’s a city guard, brushing by his side, telling him to stop blocking the way, in which he sheepishly apologizes before heading down. The sun is halfway setting, giving way to the night, the sky a mixture of honey gold and soft hues of blue and violet, like paint mixing in water, viewed through a transparent plastic cup. The lights flicker, and he just sort of catches the wave of Piper’s hand, flagging him down. He obediently walks over.

Her grin is bright and charming, green eyes gleaming, oozing a sort of charisma and optimism that seems almost familiar. “ Pretty neat the first time you see this place, huh?”

He knows she can’t see his face through the gas mask, but he exhales low and heavy anyway. Contemplative. “I... yeah. Yeah, it is.”

She hums, nodding a little. Her dark hair bobs when she does. “Welcome to Diamond City, pal. Not as fancy as it looks, but it’s home.” Grins again. “I’m Piper, if you didn’t already catch on from our, ah. Little run in with Mayor McDouchebag. Piper Wright. And... this is the paper I said I run! Publick Occurences. Now I know you’re probably in a hurry and I'm not gonna stop you, but I was wondering if you could drop by my office sometime soon? I think Diamond City could use a story with you in it. And — don't worry, it's not for nothing, I might have info and people _you_ need. Not — I mean, not like _literally_  people with me in there, but I get around when I do my news scooping. You get me?”

He stares at her, her rapidfire business proposal catching him off guard. “Um,” he says intelligently, even more glad he has his gas mask on because now at least she can only hear, instead of seeing, how awkward he is. “You want to put me in the papers.”

“Well, duh. Yeah! We don't get many vaulties wandering around, especially after I got booted from Vault 81, and we could use some new perspective what with the... current events. I  _promise_ , you won’t regret it. I’ll throw in something for you, promise. Or will, eventually. I don’t have, like, a billion caps to throw around or any neat weapons, but I'll figure something out, you have my word.”

Winces. He... he _really_  doesn’t. Like. Being the centre of attention. He’s always liked life living on the sidelines, away from view, keeping to the shadows. S _hadows preserve us_ , a childhood friend of his used to say. Being on a newspaper in a world he still can hardly swallow doesn't seem like the wisest choice. But on the other hand, if her news gets around as quickly as she makes it seem, then maybe he’ll be able to get her help at some point or another. Help to find Shaun. Help, to see if anyone's seen where he's gone. She seems genuine enough, a good person, and his intuition has saved his life enough to make him consider it with considerable interest. Won’t make him any less wary, though, any less cautious.

His silence must be a hint to her, because she shrugs, her smile lopsided. "Promise me you'll think about it and get back to me. Okay?"

“Alright,” he says slowly, “That’s fine.”

When she claps her hands together, the leather dulls out the noise. Her grin is cigarette-stained yellow, but bright as a stadium spotlight. “Great! Anyway, Nicky’s place is behind the shops.”

He turns to where she gestures at, behind the row of shops starting to close up for the night, only for something to pop into his head. _Vaultie_.

“Wait, how did you know I was a — “

But when he turns back she’s already walking back into her office. He only catches the tail end of a wave before she disappears behind the door, the faded red of her leather coat the last thing he sees before it shuts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“ — The detective... he’s missing.”

Fantastic. Wonderful. Absolutely _spectacular._  The only person who might be able to help him even remotely track down any information of his missing son, and the guy is missing himself. This is a fucking nightmare he must be in.

A dull throb of an exhaustion-headache starts lowly in his skull, packed along with the anxiety and the him just trying to _wrap his head_ around his entire situation, and he considers the gas mask to be the best thing he’s scavenged yet, if only because at least she — Ellie Perkins, she’d mentioned — won’t have to see the tiredness in his eyes. It’s been only a week since he’d thawed out of the vault. He’s spent the first few nights crying his eyes out, and every night since staring at the ceiling, feeling unreal and full of static from the overwhelming fact that the world as he knew it is entirely gone. That his best friend is dead, his son missing. Second day waking up in an unfamiliar world and he already had to help out Preston and the settlers and take on a twenty foot irradiated lizard almost entirely on his own. And then he’d had to help those settlers make Sanctuary a place to live in again. And then he was sent to a factory full of raiders, _alone._ And then he’d had to dodge bullets and mutant attacks just to get to Diamond City with Preston.

And now this.

He just wants to find out where his son is. He doesn’t know why life keeps throwing him into situations he never asked for. He just wants his  _family back._

Still. This Valentine guy might be one of the few people who could help him, judging by everything literally everyone's said about him. Mama Murphy had hinted it. Had seen it herself, according to her Jet-fueled haze. The _mayor_  had personally recommended it. Piper, too. And even though he’s emotionally spent and weary to the bone, scared and confused and lost in this world around him, he knows he has to at least try and find Shaun. He doesn't have a choice. Even through the frazzled mind that tears him limb from limb night, taunts him with the loaded pistol in his pack and the memory of his dead family, he knows at his core that he’ll have push through. Because he has to. Because it's the one thing he has left to hold onto, the last hope he has in this unknown. Because Shaun is his _son_ , because Jennifer was his best friend. He has to at least  _know._  Needs to find out what happened. For Jennifer. For Shaun. Needs to at least find out _something_  about him, for her and everything they built together. Shaun is his baby boy. His _son_. In their home in Sanctuary, together — he felt like he _belonged_ , had just gotten comfortable and happy. Home.

He has to take the first step. Doesn't have a choice; his conscience and Jennifer's voice won't let him do otherwise.

Even if the first step is, apparently, held hostage by a gang in a station-turned-vault.

“I’ll... I'll try to find him. You have my word.” Adust answers, finally. Not without hesitation, but it's not like he has a choice. And if there's anything he's used to, both old world and new, it's how to handle a gun.

She does, and her smile is a relieved one, a sigh escaping through her teeth. “Thank you. Nick should be easy to spot. He’s always wearing that old hat and trench coat getup... Real noir detective like, you know? Please, hurry.”

As he steps back out, closing the door behind him and into the backway flooded with the bright red of the detective’s sign, he realizes that maybe, just _maybe_ , he should’ve asked if he could have a place to sleep for the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dugout Inn isn’t the... _best_  place he’s ever slept in, but at least it’s not the worst. Not by far. He’d spent nights in worse places than this, some not even with the luxury of a roof. Sniper training has had him lying in dirt for days on end without sleep.

 _This place? It_   _has beds. It's fine_ _._

Adust wakes up to darkness and his hair in his mouth, and everything tastes sour from sleep and days without toothpaste. His limbs ache, slightly, ringing with activity it hasn’t had to do in almost a year. He spits his hair out of his mouth. Grimaces when it sticks to his cheek wetly. The blanket he has pulled over his head is ratty, more hole than cloth, and the mattress smells like stale sweat and the acrid smoke of cigarettes, among a whole lot of other familiar smells that he doesn’t want to put names to, not when his nose is buried right in it.

There’s no real way to tell that’s daytime in the room, not even after he shifts the blanket off himself, weary eyes creaking open to stare up at the peeling ceiling. The room has no windows, or anything else that could tell the time, aside from the number on his pip-boy that tells him it’s seven in the morning. The lightbulb ahead flickers weakly, and everything of him feels heavy. This is the first time he’s slept in a bed since the world ended and he almost wants to go back to sleep, even _if_  the bed is halfway rotted and stuffed and stained with who-knows-what. Even in Sanctuary he just made do with the floor and a ratty roach-eaten sleeping bag, leaving the proper beds to the settlers who seemed to need it more. But he wants to, to — to just lie down, close his eyes, shut the world out. Stop existing for even a few more minutes. So he won't have to grapple with everything he has to wrap his head around, so he won't have to face the fact that he's lost everybody, lost everything, lost and lost and lost and confused.

But even though the temptation is strong, he knows that he couldn't anyway. Sleep, that is. Too haunted by nightmares, by thoughts that leave him gasping through tears and clenched teeth, and he’d come in to the Dugout late last night, after agreeing to help find Valentine. So he heaves a sigh through his nose. Fingers digging into the fabric of the mattress as he grunts, getting up, wincing at the loud creaking of springs too old. His hair is a wild mess, he knows it, but he straightens it out best he can with just his fingers, trying to ignore how greasy his roots are. Trying not to miss the smell of his shampoo. It’s not too hard. He’s gone through long periods without showers before. ( _Doesn’t make it feel less gross though,_  he thinks idly.)

It takes a minute to shake the sleep out of his system by getting up, and stretching. It takes another minute to re-tie his hair into it’s bun and then put on all the armour pieces he’d taken off in the night, the jagged metal of half of it too risky to wear to sleep and honestly too bulky to wear in general, but he doesn't have much better choices for the time being, however much he prefers walking light. The gas mask goes on last. It’s become a comforting weight, over the past couple of days, ever since he'd found it while helping out Preston and his settlers. Separates a comfortable distance between him and the world. Makes sure nobody can read his face, and not just because it makes him seem more put-together than he is. The fact that it also filters out a sizeable amount of the smells of the Wasteland that include bloatfly guts to straight up decaying flesh, well, that’s just gravy. 

Thinking too much hurts in more ways than one, and if he slows down and takes the time to try and think and accept _everything_  in one fell swoop, including all the differences between the old world and the new one, about the different values and stakes and what he has to adapt to now — he would break. He _knows_  he would. More than he already has, a few times, after Preston had sent him to Corvega in a desperate tone that Adust couldn't say no to. He'd spent an entire day trying to keep the screaming in his mind down, trying not to think about the fact that he's been here before, when it was still a car assembly factory and not... whatever  _this_ is, now. He'd spent the entire time there not quite himself, shooting, almost in disbelief of the situation while his body worked on autopilot.

(It's not the killing that gets to him. He's used to that now, desensitized to it since the war. Has learnt, for years now, how to adapt himself to the violence. His enemies are people, but so is he. That it's kill or be killed, that it's for survival, that sometimes killing is necessary in certain situations. He's learnt to accept that years ago, and even before then, his hands have never exactly been clean. In his youth he merely had sticky fingers, and now they're stained with blood gained by necessity. He doesn't find any joy in killing. Nothing pleasant about it beyond the echoing, wave of a fact each time that he got out of it alive, but he has no qualms on doing it if it's necessary.

No. What hurts, what's  _maddening_ , what makes each day pass by with panic attacks brewing under his skin is the fact that everything's  _changed._ Civilization is alive, but everything and almost everyone he's ever loved is dead. Gone. Wasted away. Buildings he used to pass by now crumbled to ruin, his old home barely holding up. Out of everyone he's ever known, he's the only one out here, spat out with freezer burn, into a world that's familiar but too different to navigate anymore. It's the change, so fast it gave him whiplash, that's making every waking moment like a nightmare he can't wake up from. He just wants to go home. )

He tucks it away as best he can, the thoughts. Leaves it for a time when he's stronger, or when things are quieter, and hopes he'll be able to handle it then. Get used to it. Focuses on taking the situation one step at a time, adapting to what’s directly in front of him, glad — at least — that he’s no stranger to dealing with grime and daily survival struggles on a fundamental level like food and shelter. Growing up in poverty seems to have paid off in some fucked up, roundabout way at least.

He checks, then double checks, then triple checks everything is still in his pack (he’d used it as his pillow) before slinging it back on and heading out. He stops in the sort-of bathroom to take a piss and brush his teeth ( _with no toothpaste, it’s really just him scrubbing his teeth with a worn brush, but it’s all most of the wasteland can do these days as far as he knows so it’ll be enough_ ) before heading out to the main bar area, slipping by both Bobrov brothers without being seen. He tries the port-a-dinner, just once, an idle hope, though he’s never succeeded in winning even before the war. Naturally, the pie slips, and he turns up empty handed. _At least one thing from the past has remained a constant_ , he muses, before leaving.

The door to the inn squeaks a little when it shuts, but there’s comfort when he steps out, the small sound of his boots on the concrete, the feeling of cool air and warm sunshine on his neck. Autumn has always been his favourite season, a perfect balance of temperatures that tickles him right. Even now, even here, even two hundred years after, it’s still the same. As he makes his way past the dining patrons of the inn outside ( _sitting together, laughing soft and already a slight tipsy, going back and forth between baked chunks of meat and bitter cigarettes_ ) and past the butcher’s shop ( _there’s sweat beading on her nose and tiredness in her skin but she handles the knife like it’s part of her own hand, hackin’ and whackin’ and smackin’_ ) he wonders how everyone here will handle the winter.

Diamond City’s marketplace is only just waking up as he strolls in, patrons sluggishly moving around while shop owners have already started barking out their own advertisements. He keeps his mind carefully blank as he focuses on things, like how Takahashi’s noodles smell almost divine as he passes by the warmly lit and welcome food landmark of the city, the robot chef hard at work. But he doesn’t have the caps to spare for the luxury of properly made noodles, so he settles on heading over to Arturo’s stall, awkwardly accepting the title of ‘new guy’ before trading caps for some .308s and a look through some customized flaming sword. Then a trip to Myrna’s general goods stall, where he mournfully exchanges a majority of his already meager amount of caps for a few stimpaks, while she gives him the stinky eye the whole time, threatening him under her breath if he so much as decided to pass gas in her general direction that seemed synth-y.

Synthetic humans. He’s slightly unnerved, too.

He quickly tucks the questions away for later, though. Another one of the major things in the wasteland he tucks away into his _for when you’re stronger_  mental vault. Can’t focus on breeding panic on something he knows near nothing about, when he needs to focus on finding this, Mr Valentine, and then finding Shaun. But maybe the train of thought is slightly fortunate, in it’s own way. There are issues of _The S_ _ynthetic T_ _ruth_  everywhere, and it only just occurs to him that he has a place he’s promised to visit.

Nat is already at her usual post, by the time he gets over to the newsstand, standing bright and full of energy on her tippy-toes and barking headlines at sleepy citizens who don’t have even a quarter of the energy she does. In a way, the image is  — it’s warming. Really, makes him pause for a little, because she reminds him so much of his own childhood, all raggedy clothes and enthusiasm, though they differ in the way that she’s very in-your-face.

Then again, she’s trying to sell newspapers. He spent most of _his_  childhood differently, hands in pockets and shining shoes.

The girl’s eyes brighten when he comes closer, and she thrusts a newspaper so enthusiastically at him he almost jolts. “Hey mister! Piper says newcomers get a free edition. Read the truth!”

 _The S_ _ynthetic T_ _ruth_ , the headline says, and in all honesty Adust figures he could’ve just picked up any of the copies lying around in the city for the taking. Still, he pockets this one. “Ah, thanks. Is Piper in?”

A nod, a jerk of a thumb over the shoulder. “She’s inside. No funny business! She’s mean with a pistol.”

Adust can’t help but feel warm at that, but Nat can’t see that so he just holds his hands up in a mock-surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And then he goes inside.

The place is... cozy. Really. The red walls are warm and faded and everything smells like ink and paper and a little bit of cram, but that’s only to be expected. It’s very home-y, actually. And standing dead-centre is Piper. Or more like, _crouching_ , because she’s arm deep into the printing machine. It’s almost charming, actually — on the floor, half-kneeling in the dust, hard at work preserving something he’s increasingly sure that she’s more dedicated to than he first imagined. Her fingers and elbows are stained with dark grease, her red cap and coat lying safely draped over the couch while she works only in her yellowed-white button-up undershirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows.

When he clears his throat, she peers over her shoulder owlishly, before grinning, a dark smear of ink on her cheek. “Hey, Blue! Thought you forgot about me. Give me a sec, the ol’ girl’s got something stuck in there. Make yourself comfortable.”

"Blue?” he asks, making his way to the couch. Vaguely admires the way it doesn’t creak like the ones do at the Dugout. Tries a variety of positions to look casual, fails spectacularly, and eventually just sits sorta stiff.

“Caaause you’re a Vault Dweller?” Piper responds, though she doesn’t look his way, an arm still up in the heat of the machine. Her voice is only mildly strained. “I know you’re not in a vault suit right _now_  or anything, but everything else is a dead giveaway. Pip-boy? Healthy skin and nails? Bet if you took that mask off you’ll even have all your teeth, and a helluva lot whiter lookin’ than the rest of us here.”

She seems to find what she’s looking for, because she goes _ah-hah!_  in a hushed yell of victory, and she yanks out a glob of gross half-solidified grease and ink and paper mulch. Behind his mask, he idly runs his tongue along all of his teeth. ( _Yeah. All there_.) When she wipes the sweat off her forehead with her arm, it leaves a dark smear that he doesn’t want to point out, not with the way she finally gets up and turns back at him, sunny-smiles and enthusiasm that he’s starting to think just runs in the Wright family. She grabs a towel — and where did _that_  come from? — and starts wiping her hands, before grabbing her cap and putting it on. Idly, he wonders if it makes her feel more in-character.

There’s a tape recorder placed in front of him, then, and her eyes sparkle greener than the Great Green Jewel itself.

“So listen. Here’s the deal. I want your life story in print. I think it’s time Diamond City had a little outside perspective on the Commonwealth.” Piper explains, adjusting the tape. “You do that and ah. I’ll offer you some pointers! Give you some advice on how to deal with the Wasteland so you’ve got a better chance of not being dead out there. I'll even follow you out and get your back, whenever I can. Trust me, I have a lot of good tips and tricks to go around the ‘Wealth so you don’t end up with a few extra decorative bullets in your spine.”

At least _that’s_ comforting. He shifts a little, uncomfortably. “My... _entire_  life story?”

She nods. “Well, I mean I’m not gonna ask you for your daily bathroom habits since you were nine or anything, but you know. The general gist.” A dismissive wave of the hand. “C’mon, Blue. Please? My knowledge is invaluable, cross my heart, I’ve been almost _everywhere_  in the Commonwealth, and I’ll gladly let you in on it once you you do this interview. What d’you say?”

He — ah, he doesn’t think he can say no anyway. She already has the tape recorder ready, herself leaning forward to look him in what he assumes that she assumes are his eyes ( _and she assumes right)_. and he already said he would.

He’s never one to go back on his promises, no matter how uncomfortable.

“Okay. Okay, okay.” he sighs. “Go for it.”

She smiles, and she claps her hands, just once, sharply and happily, settling down in the seat in front of him, scooting until she’s sitting right at the edge of it. Looking more excited about this than he probably ever would be. “Great! Let’s get down to business. Okay, so — first things first. You’re obviously from a vault. Which one, and how would you describe your time on the inside?”

“Uh. Vault 111.” he answers. “And I can’t say. Not really. We were — we were frozen. Cryogenic stasis. All of us, except the staff. So most of my time on the inside was... cold.”

That musn’t be the answer she expected, because her eyes widen, and she half-laughs, disbelieving. “Wait, wh — they boxed you up in a fridge? The whole time? Are you saying you’re alive before the war?”

Adust wonders if his grimace can be seen through the gasmask. “Yeah. I was.” Just a week ago for him. Two hundred over years for everyone else. It’s a thought that comes back often. It makes his chest clench. Makes  _her_ eyes open wide, lets out a low whistle.

“Oh my God. The Man Out Of Time.” she states, shaking her head a little in disbelief. "I can't believe it. First time I've seen anyone pre-war who wasn't a ghoul, but knowing Vault-Tec, this is far from surprising. This is... wow. So — the Commonwealth. Diamond City. It's got to be different from now and then — How does it compare to your old life? God, I can't imagine.”

A furrow of the brows. “I mean. How do you think? There’s no... _comparing_  the two.” Back then, no matter how poor he was, at least the flies wouldn’t try to kill him in his sleep.

“Fair enough. Guess things were a helluva lot better back then — or not, seeing as how we've got this world to deal with now.” she replies, nodding when he does. She’s right, anyway. “Okay. So you got out of the vault somehow. When we met, yesterday, at the gates, when we ran into Mayor McDonough — you said you came here looking for someone. For your son. You said he was, what, a year old? How — How did you even get out? Where's the other vault dwellers, how did your son go missing if you guys all got out at the same time?”

“Half a year. Just... still a baby.” It hurts to think about it. Hurts worse to say it. Tastes bitter in his mouth, like a pill melted down over his tongue. "And I was the only survivor of the Vault. Some kind of error. Everyone was dead except me. Or at least — my, uh, my wife, she had Shaun in her arms when the pods opened the first time but. Only hers. And these guys — I don't know who they are, but they sh— shot her. Took Shaun. Sealed us up again until the error popped me out, alone, a week ago."

At least the sympathy in her eyes are genuine, wincing when his voice cracks. “That... that’s awful, Blue. I’m so, so sorry.” A pause. A bite of her lip that makes him half-dread what she’s going to say next. “But I... gotta ask. Do you think that, just maybe, the Institute is involved?”

There’s that word again. The same one he’s been seeing around Diamond City, passed from mouth to mouth laced with fear and venom in equal measure, breeding paranoia like mosquitoes on still water. He still doesn’t... _know_ , who or what this Institute is. He’s heard more than a few mention of it. Rumours flying past his trained ears, questioning the human integrity of Mayor McDonough. Everyone questioning, everyone scared, an almost electric hum of anxiety that he realizes is part of the city, almost fading in the back of the warmth of human contact but always there, like static in a TV left to play in the background. Between everything here, there’s fear. Synthetic humans, he’s gathered, but no matter how unnerving the idea he can’t grasp the full fear of it, still new to the concept. Still too focused on Shaun first. He can get maybe, that everyone’s afraid of... what, synthetic humans taking over the world, maybe. But it’s an idea he’s only ever seen in fiction. Books, comics. It’s hard to associate it with something real, an actual situation. 

But now — now _Piper_  is mentioning it with Shaun added to the mixture, and he finds the shrill voice in his head rising an octave as he straightens up a little. Shaun and the Institute? What would they want with him?

“What’s the Institute?” Adust asks, slowly. “I’ve been... hearing mentions about them.”

She shakes her head. “That, Blue, is the biggest mystery of the Commonwealth. Nobody knows who or where they are, but their handiwork is all over.” Piper explains, expression turning troubled. Fingers lacing together, then un-lacing, then repeating. Like a tic. “Synths. Synthetic people. Sent from their hidden labs to do the Institute’s dirty work. They destroy settlements, entire families, just to raid and then they disappear without a trace. Sometimes they even kidnap people, replace a person with — with a synth double.”

He finds himself going rigid, ice in his lungs. _Oh_.

Piper keeps going. “There’s two major kinds of synths you gotta look out for. The first one is an obvious fake. Skin looks like plastic, skeleton may even be showing. You see groups of them scouring the Commonwealth, killing people, scavenging what’s left. I reported on University Point awhile back. Whole town got cleaned out.” A pause. A breath. “The second type of synth is the real deal. With skin, blood, warm smiles and guilty glances. Just like a good ol’ fashioned human. Can't tell 'em apart until you pop 'em open — I saw one once, already dead, there was some kinda chip in the head.”

She pauses again, here. Looking for words to properly describe it, he supposes, as her brows furrow. And then she turns back to him.

“Listen,” she continues, looking right at him, _piercing green_ , “I know you’re probably new to all this, and all this fear over a boogeyman that no one’s been able to track — it seems kind of ridiculous. Like, comic book nonsense, right? And it _would_  be just mindless paranoia, if it weren’t for the fact the Institute’s hurt the Commonwealth. A  _lot._  Actual, tangible effects. Take this as your first official warning, from me to you: watch out for them. Synths are one thing on their own, but with the Institute flicking the controls? It’s dangerous, Blue. More than you realize. Groups of robots gunning down innocent people, sometimes entire settlements and towns en masse, just to collect supplies for some unknown people hiding away in the shadows. And family, friends, neighbours being taken away to God-knows-where, being subject to God-knows-what, to be replaced with an exact replica. It’s terrifying, and it’s been going on for way, way too many years. If you’re wondering why everyone’s so scared? This is why.”

Teeth clamped shut. Fear, breeding somewhere in his throat, spreading like fractals of ice on water in the coming winter. Panic. He feels his hands trembling already, his mind whirring to accomodate this new information; there is an entire shadow organization creating synthetic people,  deadset on killing and raiding and replacing people? Experimenting? It’s a scary thought, _oh God, what the fuck, what the fuck is this world,_ and it's terrifying mainly because if, _if_   this... weird, sci-fi trope organization took Shaun, what kind of things are they doing to him, what have they done to his _baby_   —

“What would they want with a baby boy?” he asks, and his voice leaks more fear than he’d wanted to let on. Fuck. “A spy on... on what? He couldn’t even walk or talk or — “

“Maybe for experimentation.” Piper answers stonily, before realization overtakes her and she immediately waves her hands. “No! Not, not that I’m saying they _are — wow,_  Piper, you just stuck your entire _leg_  in your mouth there — I’m not saying the Institute _did_  take your son. The Commonwealth is dangerous, and there’s plenty of other reasons kidnapping happens and — shit, okay, I’m not great at comforting people but the point is, I’m not saying the Institute _did_  take him, or they’re responsible for the missing people around the Commonwealth. Just... all I’m saying is, be careful out there. And watch out for the people around you. And — be understanding, if some people are a little paranoid out there in the ‘Wealth.”

Inhale. Exhale. He takes a few precious moments to breathe, to calm himself. Think rationally. There are... _hundreds_  of reasons someone could’ve taken Shaun. Majority of them unhappy.

Adust chooses not to focus on them. One step at a time. Too many factors to consider and he’ll only confuse himself.

His silence maybe gives Piper a cue, because she starts picking up the tape recorder again, looking apologetic. “Sorry for dropping a bomb on you. Not, uh — sorry, no offense to the whole war thing, but just. Yeah. Whew.” She throws on a slightly forced smile, and even though he knows it is what it is, he forces himself to relax anyway. Unclenches his fists, runs his tongue along his teeth as he relaxes his jaw. Better that she warned him now. He’s... grateful. Really, he is. Just... he puts it back in his mental vault again. Like he said earlier, no point in breeding fear in himself for something he hasn’t even — oh God, but Piper can’t be exaggerating if this is the way everyone’s acting, and — “Anyway, uh. I... think we're done here today. Think you could give us a closing statement?”

Adust’s head cocks up. “A what?”

Piper smiles, a lot more genuine this time. “A closing statement. A... _direct_ statement, actually, to Diamond City.” she holds the tape recorder a bit closer to his face. “Let’s just say missing people is something people in the Commonwealth don’t want to think about, or deal with. So. Maybe give some... words of encouragement? To the people out there who’ve given up, or think they’re too weak to find their loved ones. The reason _you_  go on. I mean, you've had to cope somehow. God knows I don't know how I'd act if I got spat out of a freezer like that.”

He hesitates. Not that he’s _awful_  with words, but he’s not great with them either. It isn’t even as if he has a spectacular way of describing his own goal. Not everyone is as strongly family-oriented as he is. Not everyone has people like Jennifer in his life, a role model in all her fierce determination and raw courage, an eternal source of strength to tap from because she never ran out.

( _A_ _nd when he stares into Piper’s green eyes, ablaze with fierce determination and a ruthless tongue, he’s starting to realize why Piper feels so familiar._ )

“One day at a time.” is what he goes with, finally, breaking the silence. “One day. One step. You’ll get there.”

Things he tells himself, too. What else can he do?

“We’re all just doing what we gotta do, huh? Think my readers could relate to that.” Piper says, a smile quirking the edges of her mouth as she clicks a button on the tape recorder, stuffing it in her pocket. “Well, I think I have all we need. It’s gonna be a great issue, once I get the ol’ girl working proper again. On behalf of Diamond City, or at least the reasonable folks, I thank you.”

Adust feels the ghost of a laugh in his system, slightly awkward and in half-disbelief, stopping before it leaves his throat and coming out in just a little huff. “I don’t think it’s something worth thanking me for.”

The journalist snorts, putting her still-stained hands on her knees, pushing herself up to stand. “Oh, please. You’d be surprised how many people would benefit from an outside perspective. Some of the folk here are... too content. You know? Could use either a little more hope or a little more of a wake-up call. And here’s ol’ Piper, trying to do that with some ink and paper. And you'd think they'd give me some credit, right? _Nooo_ , it's all  _Piper stop writing this_ and _Piper you're gonna get arrested_ , unbelievable...”

He pushes himself to his feet too, as she keeps rambling. “Ah.” is all he replies, switching on his pip-boy. “Crap. It’s almost eleven.”

“— Can’t even remember the last time I’ve seen anything with accurate time-keeping. In a hurry, huh?” Piper questions-but-not-really, cocking her head, look of concern on her face. It’s oddly endearing, how she wears her heart on her sleeves like this. Maybe that’s why people trust her, he thinks, as she puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “Good luck out there, Blue. I hope ol’ Nick can help you find your boy.”

He grimaces, behind the gasmask. “Actually, that’s... kind of why I need to go.”

She blinks, slightly confused. “To see Nick? Thought you went to find him last night?”

He shifts again. “I did. Turns out he’s gone missing too.” he explains, watching her face fall. _Well, since we’re on the topic of missing people. Apt._  “His assistant — uh, Ellie, I think — said he disappeared working on a case. Something about Skinny Malone and a missing girl. Ellie thinks he’s being held hostage in Park Street Station in an — an old vault, I think she said. Something about Triggermen too? I ended up offering to find him.”

The hand on his arm drops, and Piper sighs, heavy and loaded with worry. Pinches the bridge of her nose and leaves a dark mark on it. “God, Nicky, what’ve you gotten yourself into this time —” she murmurs, half-under her breath, before she suddenly snaps around on her heel, stalking towards the other side of the room hidden behind a divider. Adust stares confusedly after her, listening to the sounds of things clinking and rustling, her rummaging drumming up noise in the quiet office, before she comes back out, a gun jammed in a holster and a pack full of ammo. “I’m coming with you.”

He stares. “What?”

“I said I’m coming with you! God, I should’ve _known_ he was missing longer than normal but, I dunno, I guess I just got caught up with the McDonough case. Stupid, stupid Piper.” she says, hands moving wildly, frustration on her face. “Okay, not an excuse, but I mean! We have to find him, Blue. He’s one of the few genuinely _good_  people in this place, in the ‘Wealth. And you’re not going alone down into the Commons, you'd be dead in a brahmin's fart.”

Adust is almost tempted to take her up on her offer. Getting to Diamond City alone was mostly quiet but he still relied on Preston. And that was with the knowledge there were Diamond City guards helping halfway. In Boston Commons, though, he doesn’t know for sure what to expect. Granted, if he’s veeery slow and careful and sticks to the walls and shadows, he’s confident he could make his way around — but would he, in this new ruin of his old city? Piper’s help would be invaluable, he’s sure — but. But, but, _but_.

“Are you sure?” he asks. "What about Nat?"

She freezes mid-step, and then he watches her nose scrunch in frustration, pinching the bridge again. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t pry.

“Right. _Right._ I can’t — “ she starts, and then pauses, rearranging words in her head before continuing. “I can’t leave Nat alone, here. In Diamond City. Not now, it’s too risky, Mayor McDonough’s got an eye out for me and my sister, if I shift her onto Arturo again he’s gonna have it out for him too — but, fuck. Nicky. I can’t leave him down there and you can’t go alone.”

It's difficult, he knows. But Adust doesn’t want Piper to have to make the decision between putting herself and her sister at risk for him, a stranger, even if it _does_  revolve more around this Nick Valentine than it does around himself.

“I could go alone, like,” he tries, “I managed to take out the raiders at Corvega by myself.”

“Yeah, _half_. The rest are still hanging around raising hell near Lexington, everyone knows about it, it was on DCR — trust me, Travis may be kind of a nervous duckling, but he gets his news fresh.” Piper counters, crossing her arms. “And this is Skinny Malone you’re talking about. He has a _gang._  And maybe they’re not as scary as the Gunners or the Institute, but they’re a helluva lot more organized and better armed than your scattered, chem-addled raiders. I don’t care how good of a shot you are, but you’re not going in there alone to get both you and Nick’s ass in hot water!”

“But you can’t leave Nat here and you can’t take her with you.” he states, and Piper just grunts, troubled. In his mind, he racks through the people he knows. Anyone, anyone that could maybe help him. Because inside he knows Piper is right; even in Corvega he got caught unawares more than a few times, and he couldn’t even take out all the raiders, the protectron he found in the main chambers doing most of his work for him. He's unfamiliar with this new world, with these people, with some of these weapons — but he's unfamiliar with everyone else too, and his list of people to contact for help is tremendously low. If he dies, he doesn’t know if anyone’s going to help, and then he’ll never find Shaun and this Valentine might get killed too and —

Just. Yeah.

Adust definitely can’t bring anyone in Diamond City, that’s for sure. The mayor won’t spare the guards, and he hasn’t seen anyone here who is both capable of handling a weapon and capable of working together as a team. Those who might be, have families, and he can’t in good conscience pull them into the fray without feeling guilty. He can’t bring Preston, who’s already just barely recovered from his own firefight and is in charge of both a settlement _and_  the Minutemen now. Definitely not Sturges, the only handyman in Sanctuary. The Longs and Mama Murphy are out of the question. And Dogmeat is loyal, but not stealth material.

“You... _could_  get a hired gun.” Piper’s voice, well, _pipes_  up. Hesitantly.

Adust’s train of thought stops, screeching on it’s rails. “A — a what?”

“A hired gun. A mercenary. C’mon, Blue, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of ‘em?” she tries, sounding as unsure as she looks.

He has. He definitely has. It’s just... something he completely forgot to consider. Something hard _to_ consider, considering he's spent a good while before this living in a world where killing among everyday people  _wasn't_ an everyday reality, where he was going to wipe off the bloodshed off of his palms and have a nice family, an ordinary job, a _home_. Something he’s forgotten to factor in because this just rings more bells in his head that says _this is the world you’re living in now, you’ve come out from underground after two hundred years of sleeping and barely a year of coming out of a war pre-bombs and everything as you know it has changed_  and then. No. Nope. Shoves _that_  into the vault, and he hopes there’s enough space for more things in there because he doubts he’ll ever run out of things to stuff inside.

So he counts his breathing, and focuses. Throws everything away into little boxes to be peered into later, focuses instead on the immediate suggestion. Hired guns, a definite consideration. Hired guns in this _Wasteland_ , which means all the more danger, but also someone who’s experienced and who might be willing to work together, if only for an end goal of cash. Caps, sorry. Maybe that’s a good thing, to have such a visible and tangible and obvious end goal instead of a dubious ‘good samaritan’ who could guard him for unknown reasons — so many factors. So many considerations. But a consideration, still.

“How much can I trust a merc here in the Wealth?” Adust asks Piper, wary. “How are they... like?”

The journalist only shakes her head. “Yeah, I  _don’t_  generally trust mercs. I trust ‘em as far as I can throw ‘em, and I don’t throw far.” And then, “But I mean. Most of ‘em are desperate for work, these days, thanks to the Gunners’ influence, and a lot of them want a steady clientele if they want to keep the caps flowing in. Their rep goes down if they kill their clients, and I know Hancock doesn’t keep outright murderers in his city. So.”

He frowns. He doesn’t ask who Hancock is, and he’s _very_  skeptical on the idea of hiring someone who might as well shoot him in the back if they find a bigger stash of caps than what he has on him, but. _But_. he’s not about to drag Piper or any of the Minutemen into this. So. Maybe. Just _maybe._  If it fails, well — he hopes Jennifer will forgive him. At least he can say that he tried.

“I’ll — I’ll give it a shot. See who I can trust.” Adust finally responds, shrugging when Piper shoots him a worried look. “I’ll figure something out. I will.”

She seems to stare at him a moment longer, debating in her head, before she finally releases a defeated sigh. “Okay, okay, fine, yeah, that's the only way.  But if you don’t come back in _three days_ , maximum, I’m coming after you guys. You hear?” While she talks, she tugs her coat back on, slinging her pack around her shoulders. “Now c’mon. We gotta get you to Goodneighbour before nightfall. If you want at least semi-trustable mercs, that’s where you go.”

He stares. “You’re coming with? I thought —”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna be out long. Just... gonna show you the way there. Trust me, I’m good at navigating the Commons on my own. I’ll find my way back fine, as long as we get you to the gates before nightfall.” she nods, before putting on her signature charming grin. “Be — besides, I mean, what’s life if I haven’t gone through risky places before? You know, first few times through Boston Commons, I went toe to toe with a _huge_  supermutant. A behemoth. And boy, I never sprinted so fast. My legs were killing me for _days.”_

He manages a hum at that. “Sounds like a story.”

Piper laughs. “Oh, you bet. but it’s one for the road. C’mon.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ — So okay, if you see lots of boarded up wood and spikes and dead people hanging or heads on pikes? Raiders. Almost always raiders. Supermutants are easiest — meat and blood _everywhere._  You’ll smell ‘em before you see ‘em — or at least you would, if you took off that gasmask. You know what? Don't. The smell ain't worth it.”

He nods, not answering, as she explains in hushed whispers as they sneak past yet another raider camp. Trusting her to guide him had turned out to be the best decision he’s made yet — the Commons are twice as dangerous as she’d made it seem, with raiders and mongrels and supermutants appearing for almost every two minute walk in any direction. It's horrific, in comparison to his old life — people hanging by their entrails, heads on pikes, levels of violence that makes him _sick_  — but each time he just looks away and forces his mind to a big fat zero, as best he can, despite the tremble in his hands. Focuses on Piper's back, and the ground beneath them, and not getting caught. He’s grateful, at least, that he’s trained, _raised_ to be adept to stealth. Piper’s footsteps are loud in comparison, but she knows how to evade obstacles before they ever become too much of an issue, her coat fluttering behind her with each turn she makes.

They’re close to Goodneighbour, or so she’d said earlier. They’d run into the walls of the city, so they just had to make their way around. Easier said than done, when everything is out to kill you.

“Shh. Stop.” she hisses, and he freezes instantly, body lowered, right as they’re about to step over a pile of rubble. Her pistol is positioned. “Look ahead. See those guys in the green uniforms? Gunners.”

Adust sees them, alright. Sandbags and shrapnel surrounding the mass fusion building, and people guarding the area, equipped to the teeth. Skeletons and corpses of those who didn’t make it past them surrounding the structure. He’s only ever heard of them through the hissed gritted teeth of Preston and the sad tones of Sturges, but he knows that they’re dangerous. Not to be trifled with. After what Adust has heard about Quincy, he doesn’t want to test Preston’s truth either.

“Most dangerous mercs in the Commonwealth, and the largest single unalligned force. Took over Quincy not too long ago. If they’re not being killers-for-hire they’ll plunder whatever they can. They’ll kill anything and anyone for enough caps. They’re organized, well-equipped and smart.” Piper explains, as she guides him around the building they surround, past and over a toppled truck. “They could make Skinny Malone’s men run for the hills, but I doubt we have the caps between the two of us to even _try_  asking them for a contract.”

Not that he wants to invite that kind of attention on himself, contract hire or not. The information is welcome, though, as has all the knowledge she’s given him through the journey. He makes a small noise of agreement so she knows he’s listening, and sticks close to her heels as she moves forward. He’s glad, at least, for the rest of the journey there aren’t anymore hold ups. They’ve already had more than a few close calls with raiders earlier and an army of bloatflies. Granted, he now has some extra weapons and chems and armour to sell, plus some scavenged caps, but he’s tired, and the sun is soon to setting. No matter how much she’s told him of her familiarity with the area, they’d passed enough fresh corpses for him to worry for her safety, no matter how brief their time knowing each other.

The bright neon glow of the sign is enough for him to tell where they are. Glaringly obvious, as it should.

“We’re here. Finally.” Piper breathes, taking off her cap and fanning herself. Beads of sweat are gathering on her nose. It’s stuffy, here. When she turns to him, her eyes are bright. “You gonna be alright on your own?”

“I’ll... manage. Thanks.” he says, nodding. “Thanks again.”

“Get Nick back safe and it’ll be _my_ thanks to give, plus whatever I can scrounge up. He’s —  he’s like family to me. To Diamond City.” she explains. "Listen, two last pieces of advice I can give you. One, sleep with one eye open if you're going to stay at the Rexford. And two, the first time you see Nick, don't shoot. He's safe, no matter what he looks like."

And that's not ominous at all. _Is he disfigured or something?_  “I’ll try and make it back in a couple of days.”

“You’d _better_.” she huffs, before slipping the cap back on, and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Be safe, Blue. Keep your head. I know all this must be hard to adjust to, and after losing everything — but just know you've already got friends to count on in this new world, okay?”

He nods, just once, and then she’s off, slinking through the rubble and disappearing behind a building, going off on a different path than the one they’d taken here. He waits, maybe five, maybe ten minutes. Keeps an ear out for gunshots or cries. But nothing happens but the sound of the city rustling, light debris rolling across concrete, and noises from within the walls. Idly, he hopes she likes the copy of RobCo he’d slipped into her pack. It’s not much, but he’s heard copies are valuable, and it might help her out with her own machine. A thanks, for the help, sort of.

Adust turns to the glowing, neon sign of Goodneighbour, and then to the door it points to. Adjusts the hunting rifle in his hands.

Well. Here goes nothing, and everything, all at once.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been wanting to write a fic like this for a long time, haha. should be noted that i write everything initially in all lowercase and that none of this is beta read so, forgive me if there are mistakes, i'll fix them as i catch them.
> 
> i'll also be promoting other good fo4 fics here at the end of each chapter. go give these guys a read and some love.
> 
> that said, there's not enough ladies loving ladies here in this fandom (i say as i write an m/m fic anyway) but if you need some really good curie/piper (though it's explicit, i wanna mention), give [In The Flesh](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5926888) a read! pop a comment and a kudos while you're there.
> 
> EDIT: 24/1/2017, changed a bit of the story to better fit adust's character. not someone afraid to get his hands dirty with killing, but not someone who finds pleasure in it either.
> 
> EDIT: 4/2/2017, erased the parts of adust's history to make more sense.
> 
> EDIT: 21/6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	2. i feel stupid, but i know it won't last for long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust saves a detective, and MacCready gets noodles.

“Yeah, we’re finished. Come on, Barnes.”

He grits his teeth a little, when they leave; Winlock with his eyes gazing straight ahead and Barnes with a cocky scoff on his lips. Their arrogant swagger pisses him off, makes his hands itch to just pull out his rifle and put a bullet in their skulls, stop them from bothering him ever again. Maybe even rip all the caps out of their cold, dead hands to buy himself another drink.  _Yeah_ , he thinks,  _that’d be living the dream_.

The only thing that stops him is the fact that he’s in Hancock’s territory. Hancock’s bar, Hancock’s VIP room, Hancock’s  _deal_ , and even though this cesspool of a city is as slimy as places get, Hancock runs a fair place, or as fair as you can get in the wastes. The guy had welcomed him into the city with open arms — and only one of his hands holding a knife, surprisingly —  and offered him this room in the back of the Third Rail, allowed him to take contracts and bring in clients. The  _least_  he could do right now is  _not_  make an affront that could bring the Gunners raining bullets into Goodneighbour territory. Especially not while Magnolia’s still crooning on stage.

Doesn’t change the fact that MacCready’s got a head full of ache and a beer glass full of empty, though.

“Damn.” he grumbles, putting the glass aside on a barrel. Leans back, and pulls his cap halfway over his eyes. He  _guesses_  that the lights are supposed to be, what, for  _ambiance_  or something, if he even got the word right. They’re supposed to be warm and romantic, with cozy semi-unfilthy couches bathed in red and Magnolia’s sensual jazzing down in the main bar.

Right now though, all it manages is to make the room seem stuffy and oppressive. There’s no air circulation down here in the old subway system, and his nose feels plugged and stuffed with the smell of sweat and beer and smoke and puke. Makes his head buzz uncomfortably, makes him sweat underneath his duster. Even Magnolia’s singing is starting to make his head swim, as it does whenever you stay in the same place and hear the same songs over and over every night in the same stuffy environment, but hey — it’s not like he can do anything about it. At least he’s trained himself to wile the hours away, on the nights where clients are scarce. Like it has been, for the past month.  _M_ _onths_.

So it’s, you know. Pretty surprising when a guy pops seemingly out of nowhere, standing in the entranceway like he’s been there all along.

Can’t blame  _MacCready_ , certainly, for his hands immediately flying to his rifle.

The guy immediately puts his hands up, though, which is a good thing. Has the decency to take a step back, too, and doesn’t say anything while MacCready stares him down, eyes narrowed and fingers hovering near his rifle.

 _Raider_ , MacCready figures, judging by the unnecessary and overblown metal spikes coming out of the armour the guy has locked around his arms and legs and chest. The leather outfit underneath isn’t uncommon for raiders in the Commonwealth either, weary and all scratched up, covered in dirt and dust and everything else. Even the eerie gasmask fits, though the guy’s doing a pretty good job at making it look intimidating, unlike most raiders who wear gasmasks that end up just looking dumb.

In fact, most raiders seem a lot —  _different_ , anyway, and that makes MacCready pause.

Most raiders in the Commonwealth are — well.  _Predictable_ , to say the least. Egos bigger than their brains, mouths as loud as their guns, cocky and stupid in equal measure. There’s a fine line between bravery and being a reckless idiot, and so far, every raider he’s come across or gunned down personally has done a straight split on that line. There’s a reason why they travel in packs, after all — five raiders make one decent gunner rookie. Strength in numbers, and all that. You don’t need brains if you’ve got enough brawn to go around to end the problem before it even becomes one.

So, you know. If this guy is a raider, he’s the quietest raider MacCready’s ever seen.

Or — not a raider at all, judging by the Pip-Boy.

 _Vaultie_ , his mind immediately echoes, and he scowls when he figures how long it took for him to realize.  _Getting rusty, MacCready._

He decides to assume the guy isn’t about to do something dumb, and moves his hands away from his rifle, though he keeps it on his lap. The guy responds in kind by lowering his hands, and taking a step forward, but no more than that. Means he’s wary. Careful. Not a lot of vaulties have the guts to come out of their hidey-holes, so either this guy’s vault actually  _taught_  him about the wastes, or he’s figured out how to be careful the hard way.

Not that it matters to MacCready. All he cares about right now is the caps in the guy’s pack.

“Look, I’m not here to make friends or do small talk. If you need a hired gun, though — “

“Were those. Gunners?”

MacCready pauses. Stares, a little while, into the empty, glassy lenses of the gasmask, before he frowns.

“Yeah, but I don’t run with them, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not anymore anyway. Stuck with them for the caps, left because they’re morons with more bloodlust than brains. Made a clean break, and now I’m flying solo. So you don’t have to worry about ‘em.” He explains, feeling bitterness at the ridges of his teeth. God, he  _cannot_  lose another client because of them. His pockets are already running dry as is. “The fact I  _did_  run with them should tell you enough about my skills though. And you can buy those skills, for 250 caps.”

The guy is quiet for another while. He seems to do that a bit, MacCready figures; stands in silence, probably thinking, and all the while MacCready has to stare into those vacant lenses. It makes him uncomfortable, and he finds himself averting his eyes without meaning to. It’s unnerving, how still the guy is, how quiet. Probably because he can’t see the guy’s face, his expression. But, you know. He’s not being shot down immediately, both figuratively and literally, so that’s nice, though he  _really_  hopes the guy opens his mouth soon —

“200 caps.” The guy says.

MacCready frowns. “What, you didn’t hear me say 250? Because I said 250.”

“I know. But I don’t have that many caps to spare on me.” The guy responds. “200, and — we’ll split all the loot we find.”

MacCready’s frown remains, but he’s quiet awhile. Because if he relents and let’s the guy set the price lower, it means he has the higher ground already. Might give him the idea that he can push MacCready over, later on, and that’s  _not_  something the merc will do, caps or no caps. He has a  _reputation_ , and with his already rapidly diminished clientele, he doesn’t want to taint it by making people think he’s a cheap shot. The guy’s a vaultie, for pete’s sake, that Pip-Boy of his could  _easily_  fetch for a few  _thousand_ caps, minimum.

But.  _But —_ and his brows furrow at this — his pockets are running dry. If he pushes this guy, will he ruin his chance of getting a paying client? He can tell without even checking his caps pouch or his pockets — his stomach hurts with hunger pangs under his duster, because he hasn’t been able to afford proper food for weeks now. Even the beer he had earlier was a pity drink from Rufus. That was, well, his meal for the day.  _Only_  meal. Loaf in a cup, as dear ol’ mayor Hancock likes to call it. He’s lucky that at least his stay at the Third Rail is free under said mayor, but still, it doesn’t change the fact that funds are dangerously low, not enough for regular meals or clean water, and he hasn’t yet sent his monthly stash of caps to Duncan yet —  _D_ _uncan_.

Well, that settles it.

“Fine, okay. You drive a hard bargain, but you just hired yourself a new gun.” MacCready finally decides, forcing a grin to his lips. Makes it seem like he’s doing the  _guy_  a favour. “Let’s get outta here, boss.”

He’s just halfway getting up when the guy shakes his head. “Actually, I was thinking we’d leave tomorrow morning. 8am. Not —  _comfortable_ , with navigating the Commons at night.”

The Commons, huh. MacCready frowns, but sits his ass back down. He’s not gonna argue with that decision. “Okay. I don’t exactly have a fancy Pip-Boy like you to tell the time, but I’ll be here if you wanna find me.”

The guy nods, and then there’s a moment of brief, awkward silence while MacCready stares uncomfortably into the guy’s blank lenses. Tick tock, tick tock, until the guy finally turns on his heel, and leaves, the door half-closed behind him so Magnolia’s velvet voice still trails into the room. It makes him heave a small sigh of relief. Talking to the man was — awkward, sure, but at least he knows he has a job now. His stomach grumbles again, but now at least he knows he’ll be able to fill it soon. He doesn’t know what a vaultie’s business involves going through the Commons, but he figures he’ll find out when he earns his caps.

For now, he’ll just have to sleep away the hunger. Gets up to close and barricade the door as best he can, as he always does, before taking off his coat to fold up into a makeshift pillow, around his satchel. Lies down, hand near his rifle.

The last thing he thinks about before he drifts off to sleep on the couch is silver hair, a gasmask, and oddly clean fingernails.

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, so.

He’s not even sure  _why_  he’s needed here.

Another laser shot blasts out ringing into the subway, and MacCready huffs a sigh as he stays at his place behind the truck, fingers tap-tap-tapping on his rifle as he sees the guy — affectionately nicknamed  _Gasmask_  in MacCready’s head, because he’s never bothered to ask for his actual name like he  _should’ve_   — scurry back to hide behind one of the crumbled tunnels. Back pressed firm against the wall, his  _laser musket_  (of all things) at ready. Gasmask is as still as a statue and just as silent, before scurrying back to finish off the remaining Triggermen, footsteps quieter than a whisper.

He’d woken up bright and early this morning, prepped and all ready to head out, his breakfast being the last pieces of molerat jerky he had on him and washed down with water that tasted faintly off. Gasmask had arrived a little late, a good half hour late according to Whitechapel Charlie, but then he did and he stared at MacCready in that silent, pensive way that made the merc uncomfortable, before handing over two hundred caps, straight up. Didn’t even question it when MacCready took a little extra time to count them all, before shoving it in his pack, alongside the rest of his gear and ammo.

( _H_ _e found out, once they step out of the Third Rail, why Gasmask ran late. There’d been a dead body out on the streets, surrounded by the watch. Sammy, if MacCready was right. MacCready had stared until the one guarding the rail mouthed 'synth', and he’d just nodded, lips pursed. Synths alone made him uneasy._ _Bodysnatching synths were on a whole other level, and MacCready’s_ _seen some things in his life._

_Gasmask had stared at the body for a good few minutes. MacCready noted the slight tremble of his fingers._

_“Yeah, the Institute’s the real deal here. Scary, dangerous, merciless.” MacCready’d said, to try and cut through the silence. “Makes people turn on each other, as if stealing them and killing them isn’t enough.”_

_Gasmask didn’t say a word. Didn’t move until a Neighbourhood Watch guy passed, and said “Your buddy MacCready here’s got a rep in goodneighbour. Bad attitude. Good aim.”_

_MacCready had snorted, while Gasmask just stared and turned away._ )

He’d watched as Gasmask ducked into Kleo’s store, trying to score some .308′s and fusion cells. At least he’s discovered one thing was right — the guy really  _didn’t_  have many caps on him, the man’s shoulders full of tension before he seemed to reluctantly shove some of the bullets back to the bot. The pouch that MacCready correctly assumed was for caps looked withered and very, very empty after that. For a moment, MacCready felt almost bad for the guy — and then the feeling quickly disappeared, because the guy’s a  _vaultie_. For all MacCready knows, the guy might have a stash of caps somewhere. Either way, it’s his own pile of caps he’s keeping an eye on, a jingle in his pouch that he plans to earn  — anything for Duncan.

Except maybe he won’t get to properly earn it after all, because Gasmask moves like a frickin’  _whisper._

The second they’d stepped out of Goodneighbour territory and into the Commons, Gasmask had immediately dropped into a crouch, and kept low the entire way to Park Street Station, his footsteps almost entirely silent and making MacCready feel like a clumsy giant, every one of his own footsteps sounding like thunder in comparison.  _Especially_  so when they actually entered the station, where sound gets echoed back and reverberated off the walls. Gasmask manages to move through on cat’s feet. MacCready feels like a  _brahmin_.

Gasmask makes up for his lack of ammo by making every single shot count, and on the rare occasion a shot didn’t instantly kill the target, the guy would scurry into a corner, quiet and hidden. Heck, MacCready figures if he weren’t tagging along as the voluntary guest here,  _he_  wouldn’t have even known where Gasmask would be, if the guy hid. It’s something that unnerves him, even though he knows the practicality and usefulness of the skill.

But the fact that the vaultie is such a crackshot ( _with a musket!_ ) Essentially means that MacCready feels like dead weight, tagging along. A third wheeler in a two person journey. And the couple of times he  _has_ pitched in a hand was by his own stupid mistakes, rookie moves  — tripping over rubble, or checking out something without realizing someone was just around the corner. And  _each time_ , Gasmask is there, shutting the offender with bullets from a pipe rifle in quick succession. Quick, efficient. Alerts no one else. Makes MacCready feel both useless  _and_  inadequate, because while Gasmask never outright scolds him for nearly getting them both killed, there’s always this... Silent disappointment, that seems to radiate off of the guy each time.

He likes to think he’s a good sniper. He’s  _earned_  his keep, all the way from Little Lamplight to the Commonwealth. He  _knows_  the lethality of his headshots, and the rifle he has slung across his back is like an extension of his own arm when he handles it. But this guy, Gasmask — there’s a way in his posture, in the way he handles a gun, that tells MacCready this guy has more experience and training than MacCready has ever had.  _Especially_  when it comes to keeping quiet. It makes MacCready feel like a bumbling trainee shadow, and he hates it.

The caps in MacCready’s pocket start to feel heavy, and not in the  _good_  way.

Frankly, it pisses him off.

At some point Gasmask just... gave up, MacCready supposes, and started asking the merc to just hide and wait until he gave the all-clear signal. Which is what he’s doing now. And while  _normally_  he’d be fine with doing nothing for two hundred caps, the combination of Gasmask saving his skin from his own mistakes  _and_  the silent disappointment is just — it sucks, it really sucks, and MacCready finds himself sulking behind the truck, while two more laser blasts ring in quick succession, before the place falls to silence.

It’s so quiet he nearly has a heart attack when Gasmask seems to pop out of  _nowhere_ , lenses staring right at MacCready’s face.

“Fu —  _frick_ , what the h — stop scaring me like that!” He hisses, under his breath. “Nearly shot you!”

Gasmask makes no expression. Obviously. “Sorry. I cleared off the Triggermen. Let’s go, there’s a vault up ahead.”

It takes a sizable amount of effort for MacCready to swallow down his bad mood and cut back his sulking, but either way, he follows after, trying to be as quiet as possible. The only sound after that is some vague rustling while himself and Gasmask check the bodies, emptying pockets for anything useful. Mostly ammo, maybe stimpaks. A little food. Gasmask even pockets some bottles of questionable variety, and a handful of chems that makes MacCready raise his brows. Chem user?

“Good for selling.” Gasmask says out of nowhere, lightly shaking a little box of orange Mentats, and MacCready’s beginning to wonder whether he’ll just keep feeling stupid around this guy. These are things he already  _knows_ , dammit.

At least he doesn’t rub any of it in MacCready’s face, though MacCready wonders whether that’s  _really_  a good thing. If Gasmask was an ass, at least it’d give him a  _good_  reason to be mad. Instead, the guy’s patience seems to run deep, and it just makes him feel childish for sulking, averting his eyes while Gasmask gets busy trying to crack open the vault door with his fancy Pip-Boy. Well. Maybe he  _is_  being childish, but at least he’s keeping his mouth shut about it.

And — yeah, okay,  _wow_ , he’s suddenly not so concerned about his own loudness anymore, when the vault door starts cranking open with an almost thunderous, reverberating creak and rumble.

He drops into a crouch without Gasmask even telling him to, and they both try to stay out of the light as the entrance to the vault presents itself. Already there are voices coming from the outside wondering what the noise is all about, and with their bodies pressed close at the shoulders, MacCready can feel Gasmask’s arms tense up. An odd tremble, and a brief shaky inhale, and it’s strange enough that MacCready raises a brow but he doesn’t get to ask a thing, as he hears voices coming from the other side of the entrance, questioning the racket. He keeps his gun trained on the entrance, for good measure, even when Gasmask whispers  _stay here_  and crawls forward, silently cranking the lever on the laser musket.

One, two blasts. Silence. Then, five shots from the pipe rifle in quick succession, effectively silencing whoever had caught Gasmask ( _because MacCready’s learnt, by now, that the pipe rifle in this situation is only used when Gasmask gets caught_ ). There’s another moment of silence before Gasmask finally peeps back over the entrance, waving MacCready over. He nods, moving low and forward, ignoring the small burn in his thighs from all this sneaking around. At least it gets the job done — even if he  _isn’t_  actually doing much.

The inside is — clean.  _Very_  clean, a level of clean MacCready’s never seen before, and okay, maybe he’s a  _little_  distracted but, like. There are things here that he’s never  _seen_  before without a layer of grime and age and soaked with rads. Who knew Sugar Bomb boxes are actually  _white_  instead of yellow-green-grey? At least he’s given plenty of opportunity to look around and pick up a few things by himself, since Gasmask has the same habit. They sneak around, pick up and pocket anything that looks good. He quietly watches Gasmask pocket every packet of perfectly preserved cigarettes and bites his tongue to stop himself for asking for them ( _he doesn’t feel like he’s earned his keep, surprisingly enough, and it’s very frustrating_.)

At least he’s being mature about it. Or as mature about it as he tries to be; keeps his mouth shut from complaining about just how much stuff Gasmask is stopping to take, and keeps his answers short and clipped when Gasmask asks him to stay in some corner while the guy does the work. Hides his sour little scowl as much as he can, and follows without question. Maybe he’s not doing a  _great_  job of hiding how he feels, but at least he’s not making noise over it, he figures as they round a corner to another portion of the vault. He’s being a bit of a baby over all this, he  _knows_ , but he can’t help it.

And speaking of making noise, he doesn’t know whether it’s because the inside of the vault is brighter than outside, or what, but halfway going through the vault it’s becoming increasingly apparent that Gasmask is getting... Increasingly sloppy, maybe. Shots missing their mark and alerting the enemy, though Gasmask is quick enough to duck and hide before any actually spot him. MacCready may not be the  _smartest_  guy in the wastes, but he  _knows_  he’s sharp, and he sees the way the guy’s hands shake a bit, whenever another door hisses open.

Either way, MacCready finds his hands tightening on his own rifle, as they drop through a few floors to hit the ground with a dull thud.

“Fu — ah,  _heck_  — “ he hisses, landing slightly wrong, but quickly shuts his mouth when Gasmask puts a finger up to —  well, he’s  _guessing_  it’s supposed to be the guy’s mouth — and gestures MacCready over to the hallway.

 _Time to hide again_ , MacCready guesses bitterly, before quietly moving over to where he’s been told to. Watches again as Gasmask moves forward silently, expression completely unreadable with the mask on his face, musket at ready. MacCready keeps his own rifle steady, while he adjusts his cap, idly scratches his stubble. Waits for the inevitable sound of a laser ringing out — or the  _bang bang_  of the pipe rifle, if Gasmask gets spotted — and the following thump of a body hitting the ground, or the smell of burnt flesh, if Gasmask lands a particularly strong hit and vapourizes the enemy to ash with his fancy musket of his.

Both happen, quickly. There’s a dying gurgle from the last one right as MacCready checks out a scuff on his boot, and then he moves forward once Gasmask nods at him.

As to be expected, there’s one body lying in the middle of the long hallway, and one pile of ash, still glowing red in the centre and smelling faintly of flesh and ozone that makes MacCready’s nose wrinkle as he passes. Gasmask is quick to rummage through the pockets, leaving MacCready to scour through the pile of ashes. He hisses when hot ash meets sensitive fingertips, and unsurprisingly no one has any bullets for his rifle, but he ends up with some 10mm bullets, which he throws to Gasmask anyway since his rifle obviously can’t use them and he knows Gasmask carries a 10mm in his own pack. 

Except — well, Gasmask isn’t looking at him. The guy’s face is staring straight ahead, and MacCready’s brows furrow until he follows where the gaze lands. There’s an open doorway into the next part of the vault, but — oh.

Yeah, okay. Really hard to remain undetected when there’s massive, bright construction lights right at the door.

He frowns at it, and then turns back to Gasmask, who’s still staring, probably thinking like he always does.

“I could scope them out for you.” MacCready tries, in a harsh whisper.  _Let me do my job_ , he completes in his head.

Gasmask only shakes his head, and MacCready huffs. “Go back to the entrance of the hallway. S —”

“ — Stay there, yeah, yeah. I get it.” MacCready tries valiantly to stop his eyes from rolling, and fails spectacularly. Still, he does as he’s ordered, and heads to the entrance to duck behind a wall, where he leans against it. Waiting, leaning out just enough to keep an eye on Gasmask.

He watches Gasmask as the guy starts pulling out half-empty bottles of vodka from the kitchen they'd passed earlier, opening them and ripping off fabric from the clothes of the corpses and taking out a lighter and —  _molotovs_ , is this guy insane or what — and then the bottle goes sailing, and then there’s a  _crash_  and a burst of fire and surprised cries from the Triggermen while Gasmask immediately ducks behind one of the side spaces of the hallway, cranking the musket. MacCready watches as one of the Triggermen barely make it to the door before collapsing, succumbing to the fire or something, but another comes running in and MacCready can tell the exact second the Triggerman spots Gasmask because there’s a  _hey!!_  And the pop-pop sound of a pipe rifle.

This fight goes a little differently though, and it makes MacCready’s brow furrow and his eyes widen as he leans out a bit more. Maybe it’s the close quarters or just a misstep but some bullets miss Gasmask’s intended target, and he sees his boss try to roll out of the way of the Triggerman’s submachine gun, about to come down and bash Gasmask up the head. And for the most part, it works, because Gasmask has the rifle pointed before the Triggerman can even aim again, and there’s another  _bang bang bang_  and the Triggerman’s down.

And normally this would be the end, another close call to add to the roster, but then MacCready’s eyes notice the third figure charging up before his boss does. It’s quick, what happens after — the Triggerman releases his rounds in rapid succession, and there’s a sharp, pained noise as Gasmask gets hit before he gets to roll away. The Triggerman’s quick to turn, aiming the submachine gun, and in that tiny side space there’s no room to miss.

But then there’s a resounding _CRACK_ _!_ and a ringing and the Triggerman goes down like a ragdoll, MacCready’s rifle still pointed in the air the man used to occupy.

He waits a beat. Just one, maybe two, see if anyone else comes up with guns blazing. It’s not like his or Gasmask’s guns have any suppressors on ‘em. The room is  _still_  ringing from MacCready’s rifle.

Nothing.

“Boss!”

It doesn’t take long for him to jog over to where Gasmask had rolled to, dropping to a knee when he sees the guy in the corner. To no one’s surprise, the guy is bleeding. Gunshots to the left arm and shoulder, but nowhere important, thank _G_ _od_ , though MacCready can make out dents in the metal armour where bullets had hit but failed to make through. MacCready can  _also_  see the guy using his uninjured hand to prop up his injured one, checking out — his Pip-Boy. Figures.

“Oh for fu — drop that thing, you can play with it  _after_  I make sure your arm stops bleeding out.” MacCready snaps, rummaging through the guy’s pack for a stim.

“Just _—_ making sure where we'll go next.” Gasmask hisses. In pain, obviously. MacCready rolls his eyes. “Have to head downstairs.”

“Maybe deal with that  _after_ I patch up the hole in your arm.” MacCready huffs.

He checks the wounds again, makes sure there’s no bullets lodged in there before he uncaps the stimpak with his teeth and jabs the guy. If he’s a little rough with the checking, if he’s not altogether gentle with administering the stimpak, well. Forgive him for not being superbly patient. He’s mildly annoyed, and not to mention more than a little hungry. According to Gasmask’s Pip-Boy, it’s already almost evening, since they’d moved through the vault in a crawl, and all he’s had to eat today was a bit of molerat and maybe a couple of stale snack cakes. So. Not a great combo.

Besides, admittedly, it’s oddly satisfying to hear Gasmask hiss in pain behind the mask. Good to remember there’s a guy in there, instead of the reactionless quiet being that he’s been flanking for the past half a day.

Half the time he swears the guy isn’t even altogether  _there_.

“Thanks.” Gasmask finally says, once the wound knits itself together. There’s dry blood down his arm and his loosely-tied silver hair is coming even looser, but he looks fine for the most part.

Not that Mac can tell. He’s still wearing that damn gasmask. “Just doing my job, boss. Like I’ve been supposed to do this entire time.”

“Not like you haven’t been.” Gasmask responds, scooting up into a better sitting position. “But it’s better if I can — eliminate the problem before it becomes one that requires both of us. And you’re, ah.”

“As graceful as a brahmin. Yeah, yeah, whatever, I get it.” MacCready snorts. Settles to sit, since this appears to be some sort of break time. And he does, honestly. He  _does_ , but it doesn’t mean it makes him feel any better about being — well. Not as good. Still, he’s on this job to protect this guy, and so far, he’s at least managed to do that once, so it makes him feel just a little bit better, even if he  _is_  still sort of mildly annoyed and more than mildly hungry.

He watches as Gasmask starts doing a little bit of stretching with his arm, and then stands up to stretch his legs. Wonders if the guy is wincing under there, because freshly healed wounds are always a little tender a few minutes after a stimpak. MacCready can’t tell a thing, not with the mask on his face, and there’s no good reason for him to ask the guy to remove it, so he just shuts his mouth and waits for the signal to get moving, though the guy just starts messing with the Pip-Boy after he rotates his arms a few times.

“We’re not too far away from where we need to go. Shouldn’t take too long.” Gasmask speaks up, zooming in on what looks like a map on the Pip-Boy’s screen. “There should be an... increase of Triggermen.”

MacCready snorts. “Nothing I can’t handle, if your laser musket finally dies along with everything else in the time of muskets.”

He swears he hears Gasmask huff what  _could_  be the ghost of a laugh, but it’s gone as soon as it starts. There’s no answer, though, so MacCready just rotates his neck a little, periodically checking the doorway while Gasmask starts rummaging through his pack for something. Maybe more ammo, or something. The guy  _had_  been using up a large amount of fusion cells since the trip started, and there weren’t many to start with, if MacCready’s guess is right. After a little while of rummaging Gasmask makes a noise of frustration, and then mutters a  _stay here_ before running back from where they came from, leaving MacCready confused and equally frustrated.  _Can't even tell me where he's headed? Cripes._

Maybe the guy remembered something he left behind, like a gun, or ammo.

He doesn’t expect the guy to come back with bowls of noodles though.

“Uh.” MacCready says, raising a brow. “You... always carry noodles around like that?”

Gasmask pauses, before just putting one in front of MacCready and settling down on an empty metal crate. “Actually, they were kind of sitting in one of the rooms we cleared before. I saw one of the men making these, but I shot him before he could take a bite. So.”

“When did you even — how can I be sure you didn’t poison this?”

Gasmask stares at him. MacCready fidgets. It never seems to get easier, being looked at with those empty lenses.

Gasmask sort of. Fidgets. "Habit. Taking food wherever I can.” is all the guys says, and MacCready thinks there’s a hint of a shrug, but it seems pained. “If it helps, we can eat half of each and switch. Ah, Nuka Cola or purified water?” 

Okay, fine. He can’t argue with that. MacCready just rolls his eyes, but nods, taking a seat on a nearby crate and muttering a quiet  _water_ and  _thanks_  before digging in. The noodles are cold by now and bloated, but it still smells better than the molerat jerky he’d had for breakfast, and that alone makes it a five star meal by his book. The fact his stomach is growling like a yao guai only makes it smell even more amazing.

It tastes even  _better_.

It’s a quick meal. It’s not like they have time to spare and, honestly, there’s not even that many noodles to go around. But it’s enough, for now, and MacCready inhales it like it’s air, unashamed to lick the last few drops of broth where he can, completely forgetting the switching thing with Gasmask. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been able to eat anything besides chunks of molerat hunted just outside Goodneighbour, and bits and pieces of whatever else he finds. Leftover Sugar Bombs in the Third Rail, a tin of cram from whatever raider he shot. This tastes almost gourmet in comparison. And that doesn’t even include the water — there’s a rush of almost childlike eagerness in his system when he cracks open the tin can, which means it’s  _fresh_ , and even though he’s left the Capital Wasteland for awhile now, he’s never forgotten the thrill and taste of clean water.

Gasmask must be hungry too, he figures, because by the time he gives up on his now-empty bowl of noodles and actually looks up, Gasmask’s own bowl is finished, put aside, his own tin of water drained while the guy focuses on his Pip-Boy again. Idly, MacCready feels a little bit of disappointment. He’d sort of hoped he’d get to see Gasmask eat, maybe see a hint of face, but no. Maybe those questions will be answered next time, and he has a  _lot_  of questions. Like how old the guy has to be with hair as silver as that ( _but with a body so lean?_ ), which vault this guy is from and how it’s like in there ( _weapon’s training must be killer, MacCready figures, if this guy is such a crack shot_ ), what kind of partner this guy must have to be able to tolerate the weird pauses and silences ( _the wedding band is kind of obvious, glimmering silver on his finger_ ).

But all questions to be answered later, if there is one, because Gasmask turns to MacCready, and then jerks his head in the direction of the doorway. It’s all he needs to do for MacCready to get it.

And maybe it’s the whole I-saved-you-from-being-shot-in-the-face thing, or the I-shoved-a-stimpak-in-your-arm thing, or the you-gave-me-a-plastic-bowl-of-bloated-noodles thing, but the silence seems at least slightly more... _c_ _ompanionable_ , now. Or maybe it’s just the post-meal contentedness that has MacCready feeling his earlier sulks slinking back into his system. Either way, he’s feeling better, and isn’t that all that matters when you live in a world that just constantly makes you feel gross?

And he likes to think maybe it’s the fact he’s saved the guys life, that Gasmask is more inclined to let MacCready help out when they get jumped by Triggermen hiding just behind the doors to the next finished portions of the vault. So yeah, maybe it could be because Gasmask was genuinely caught off-guard and hadn’t told MacCready to stay back, but either way, Mac is still close when the Triggermen jump out while Gasmask is still prying ammo out of the pockets of one of their fallen men. He lands a shot in the stomach of one of the Triggermen before Gasmask can even take out his pipe rifle, and then he brings the guy down with a shot to the head while his boss places a little over a handful of well-placed bullets at point blank to the other’s intestines.

 _See,_  he thinks, as he hears Gasmask release a shaky exhale,  _we could make this work_.

 

* * *

 

 

MacCready recognizes the voice anywhere. It’s low, it’s old, and he remembers nearly shooting the guy when he first saw the private dick roaming Diamond City’s streets when he first arrived with Lucy and Duncan. Granted, no one actually got hurt, since Diamond City security was quick to run to the detective’s rescue and clarify everything, but it’s still a memorable first meeting, even though MacCready found the guy’s peeling skin and robotic eyes unnerving and uncomfortable. Not the kind of person he’d imagined when Gasmask first told him about the rescue mission, but hey. It’s just how life works out, and if Gasmask knows the guy enough to risk his life to save him and pay 200 caps to get MacCready to watch his back, then it’s not like he can complain much. Rescue missions are rescue missions, and he needs all the caps he can get.

Or — maybe it’s not a rescue mission at all, judging by the way the guy  _freezes_  for a half second when Valentine finally looks up with neon eyes and steps into the light.

Or, when he sees Gasmask’s next immediate action is to load and aim a  _hunting rifle_  at the detective’s face.

Woah, now.

Nick Valentine has the good sense to hold his hands up in a sign of mock-surrender at least. Takes a step back, too, though Gasmask’s aim remains on point the entire time. “Hey, hey, hang on there. I don’t think I’ve ever done wrong to a vaultie. Why go through all the trouble of killing Skinny Malone’s boys unless you’ve got a personal vendetta against a private eye like me?”

“What are you.” Gasmask asks, and for all the slight quiver his voice has, his hands don’t tremble even once. MacCready can respect that, sort of. For now, though, he keeps his mouth shut. It’s not like  _he_  knows why Gasmask’s here. Granted, the guy said  _rescue_  mission, but maybe he’d thought MacCready wouldn’t tag along if it was just to fulfill some personal beef or whatever. Or assassination, maybe, if the guy didn’t even know that Valentine’s a synth.

Valentine rolls his neon yellow eyes. “Told you, I’m a detective. Look, I know the skin and metal parts ain’t comforting, but it’s not important right now. If you’re gonna shoot me, at least let me know why.”

Gasmask doesn’t answer for a moment. It’s a little easier dealing with the silences, MacCready thinks, when the guy’s not looking right at him, but it’s still mildly uncomfortable, all three of them standing in a weird sort of quiet.

“I’m here looking for Nick Valentine.” Gasmask says, slowly. “Someone said he was here. Where is he?”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He wonders if this is what Diamond City security felt like when  _he_  first met the detective.

“I’m afraid you’re lookin’ at him, boss.” MacCready pipes up, though he halfway regrets it when he feels Valentine’s stare land on him.  _Cripes_ , does that stare give him the chills. “Hey Valentine, I forgot to pick up your motor oil.”

Nick’s mouth moves into a half-sneer, but he sees the guy’s posture relax a bit. Maybe glad for MacCready’s clarification. “Cute, MacCready. You came all the way from DC to tell me that?”

His smirk moves into a frown at that, and maybe Valentine picks up on that judging by the way his look turns almost questioning — but they both stop, when Gasmask lowers his weapon. Still keeps his hands on it and his fingers on the trigger, like he’s still wary ( _and he should be, always, in the wasteland_ ) but otherwise doesn’t aim it for Nick’s face anymore. Instead the guy stares at the other, for an uncomfortable few beats.

“Ellie sent me.” Gasmask finally says, and MacCready sees Valentine seem to relax a bit more at that.

“Ellie? I should give her a raise. Especially if she’s willing to hire a vaultie and a merc to come save me.” Valentine replies. “How much was she going to pay you?”

Gasmask straightens up. “No idea. There wasn’t an amount on the table.”

MacCready frowns at that, annoyed.  _Dumb idea_ , he thinks,  _killing off an entire gang for free_. That’s a whole lot of caps wasted.

Valentine raises a — well, what’s  _supposed_  to be a brow — at that. “So you killed off almost all of Skinny Malone’s gang to rescue me, for free. Forgive me if I’m skeptical, but good samaritans are hard found in the Commonwealth.” A pause. “So instead, I’m thinkin’ you’ve got a good reason to come down here to find me anyway. A good, desperate reason, to risk life and limb for an ol’ private eye.”

Gasmask pauses again at that. A shorter pause, though, and with a reply that makes MacCready pause himself.

“Someone I know’s been kidnapped. I heard you’re good at finding people.” Gasmask answers. “I don’t know where they could be, or how long they’ve been gone.”

Oh, damn.

“Well, I’ve done more with less. Won’t say I’m the best at finding people, but let’s just say I succeeded in  _this_  particular run. ‘s just my luck that the runaway daughter I’m supposed to find turns out to be Skinny Malone’s new flame.”  Valentine makes a sound of sympathy and understanding. “Listen, we get out of here, and I’ll do my best to help you out.”

Gasmask nods, at that, switching out his hunting rifle for his trusty laser musket, and taking a little time to go to the desk behind them to scour for things while Valentine takes out his own pistol and reloads. MacCready doesn’t stop him. The guy has a knack for finding things, and if MacCready just so  _happens_ to get a share of some of the loot, well, that’s just gravy. He  _does_ , however, feel hairs on the back of his neck stand when Valentine turns his gaze back to him. He shifts uncomfortably.

While he understands the importance of the guy and all the good he’s done for Diamond City, it doesn’t change the fact he’s a  _synth_. And while MacCready doesn’t dislike them outright, he’s not comfortable with them either. Thankfully, he’s saved by Gasmask coming by at just the right moment, face still unreadable and hair freshly retied, judging by how some of the loose strands have gone back into the bun.

There’s a shiny bobblehead in his hands, though. Huh. He wonders how much  _that’s_ worth.

“Ready to go?” His boss asks, readying the musket in his hands.

MacCready only nods, Valentine following after, and Gasmask wastes no time to peer out the door. Stares out for a few beats, before dropping into a crouch, and moving forward, footsteps almost unhearable. He doesn’t waste time to drop down to follow after, Valentine catching on without complaint and trailing them. It’s a bit uncomfortable, knowing the detective is behind him, staring at his back, but. Not much to do about that now. So he focuses, instead, on making sure his rifle is loaded and ready for the firefight that’s sure to go down once this Skinny Malone character realizes most of his men are dead.

 

* * *

 

 

Or the lack of firefight, apparently.

MacCready is — okay, so, while he’s  _definitely_  all for the whole not-wasting-bullets and not-getting-shot thing, it’s a kind of.  _Anti-climatic_  end, to a long day, is all.

He watches, mouth obediently shut as they confront Skinny Malone ( _and Valentine wasn’t kidding when he said the name was mostly ironic_.) A lot of accusations, some whining on the other end. Skinny Malone comes off quickly as a guy who has a big ego but a cruddy foundation to put it on. All bark, no bite. And Darla is — well. Shrilly. Very. A whole lot more backbone than her lover, but not enough maturity to pull it off. The whole time, he keeps his rifle trained on the Malone character, ready to pull the trigger, and Gasmask has his pointed down, but still at the ready. Both of them quiet, letting Valentine do the talking.

Oddly enough, though, the deciding factor between firefight and the chance to run falls to his boss, instead of the detective.

He wonders if he’s the only one who notices the way Gasmask’s fingers tense on his musket, when all eyes shift to him.

“Like I said. I came here to find Darla and ended up getting thrown in a hole for two weeks.” Valentine tries. “You owe me for that time, Skinny. Let us walk.”

“And how do we know your guys over there won’t come back to gun us down later, huh? Finish off what they already started?” Malone grunts, worry seeping into his features. MacCready snorts, but eyes are still trained on the guy next to him. Figures. After all,  _he’s_  not the one wearing raider armour with spikes sticking out, and  _he’s_  definitely not the one with a creepy gasmask and a vacant stare. Between the two of them, Gasmask’s look practically  _screams_  dangerous.

There’s a subtle shift, and a slight pause, with Gasmask. Not one of the longer ones, though, MacCready knows. Can’t be, when there’s guns trained on them. 

“Skinny, this  _—_ it's a misunderstanding. We’re just here to find Nick, same as he’s here to find Darla.” Gasmask says, finally, slow. Steady, but wary all the same. “Everyone’s found what they needed. Let us walk. Please. We won’t come back.”

And maybe it’s because the guy’s voice is steady, or maybe it’s because of whatever sentimental value Nick’s got left on Malone, or  _anything_ , but the guy’s gun wavers, before finally lowering. A look of frustration, but defeat in the face.  _Won’t need us to finish you off_ , MacCready thinks as he frowns, halfway disappointed. This display will be the last straw for the remaining few of Malone’s men, he guesses. Granted, it’s a good thing for MacCready and Gasmask and Valentine, but there’s a reason why the best raider groups are merciless. You let people think you’re weak after already having most of your men gunned down, and the remaining few won’t stay. It’s an unpleasant reality, one MacCready knows but left. It’s not the lifestyle he wants, hates the ruthlessness of groups like that, disgusts him, but it’s the truth, and if Malone is going to stay in the business after this then, well.

Vault 114 will be looking at a new leadership soon, MacCready guesses.

The final blow comes in Darla calling Malone weak and running off herself, and for a moment, MacCready almost wants to hang back and see the expression on the guy’s poor face. But he’s given them only ten seconds to run, and he’s not planning on being left behind to get a bunch of new bullets as piercings, so he takes off after them. It’s an easy path to the surface, following Gasmask’s back and Valentine’s — after all, the path was cleared out way earlier in the day, most of the bodies already gone cold, the glow of ashes already faded. What took them almost an entire day to go through, they make it back in minutes, sprinting. The most surprising thing MacCready’s found is just how  _fast_  Darla runs in heels.

It’s night, unsurprisingly, by the time Valentine cracks open the station doors back to the outside world. As clean as the vault is, there’s something  _refreshing_  in going back to open air, and MacCready inhales deeply as he steps out. The air is chilly but  _good_  outside, and he takes a moment to let it stay in his lungs, until they almost burn, before he breathes it out. Commonwealth air is something he’s never taken for granted; it’s almost sweet, really, in comparison to the Capital Wasteland, where everything is constantly shrouded in layers of dust in the air, turning everything the same shade of  _blah_. Here, he’s sure the people of the ‘Wealth take it for granted, the fact that they have clear skies and clear air whenever there isn’t a rad storm blowing in, but he’s not going to be one of them.

“Thanks for breakin’ me outta there.” Comes Nick Valentine’s voice, and MacCready glances just in time to see the faint flicker and glow of a lighter and a cigarette. An inhale and exhale of smoke.

MacCready frowns. Does the guy even  _have_  lungs to smoke with?

“No problem.” Gasmask replies, in that offhanded, half-not-there way of his.

Valentine nods. “I appreciate it, I do. And I’ll do my best to help you out with your missing kin.” He gestures out, towards the city. “But first, I gotta get back to the agency. You two headin’ my way?”

“We’ll flank you.” Gasmask decides, propping up his musket.

“Can do.” Valentine replies, taking one last drag before dropping the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe’s heel. “Let’s go.”

Well, MacCready’s not one to argue. If his boss’ Pip-Boy is anything to go by, then it’s  _late_ , and MacCready’s already feeling tiredness seeping in, along with hunger. Nothing too exhausting, it hasn’t been that heavy of a day, but it’d be good to finally sleep somewhere else besides the Rexford for a change. If they could get to Diamond City before daybreak, maybe get a few hours of sleep before doing whatever it is they’ll be doing next, MacCready would consider this to be a pretty decent day. All they’ll have to do is make it back to Diamond City alive, in the dark, crossing the most dangerous parts of Boston. Fantastic.

But at least Valentine seems to know the way.  _Has_  to, MacCready figures, since the guy can  _see in the dark_ , and not everyone has that kind of advantage. Between the three of them, they make good pace, though they’re still forced to go slow, the dark making it easy to stumble over rubble and cracks in the concrete, and keep low. If Gunners or raiders catch eye of them in any way, it’s easy to walk into an ambush, and MacCready still has a solid amount of caps that he has to sent down to the Capital Wasteland, thank you very much.

Besides all that though, the journey is relatively quiet. Better to not attract any attention to themselves out here, and besides, it seems like they’ve all come to the decision to keep quiet and save energy. Bright fires illuminate the raider and supermutant camps in the darkness, so they pass around them with a wide berth. The most that happens is MacCready stumbling for a brief second over an unseen crack of concrete, and Valentine gets his shoe dirty stomping on a radroach. For a trip through the commons in the dead of night, it’s a  _breeze_.

By the time the Great Green Jewel comes into view, the world is dark around them, but sunrise is due in a few hours. Valentine straightens up, and Gasmask does the same, MacCready following after with a wince. His back hurts from all the crouching, and his neck is tense. Nothing he can do about it now besides trying to stretch a bit, though, so he follows after the other two, keeping his complaints to himself while he massages his neck with one hand, the other still on his rifle. He only puts it down once they’re well into Diamond City territory, the night-shift Diamond City guards walking around on patrol.

The gate is a dim green giant when they finally walk up to it, and MacCready’s still massaging his neck when Valentine talks to the intercom, requesting for the gate to be opened to let them in. It’ll be a solid five hours if they wait for the normal time it opens.

“Nick? Is that you?” The voice over the crackle of the speaker says.

“In the flesh. Or whatever’s left of it.” Valentine answers, a crack of humour in his voice. “Open up the gate before Ellie lifts it herself.”

A tired laugh carries over the speakers. “Welcome home, Nicky.”

The good thing about Diamond City’s walls and gates is that they’re strong. Not impenetrable, for sure — MacCready’s eyes are sharp, and he’s seen for himself some of the possible leaks the city’s walls have ( _and, not to mention, the few Piper’s reported herself_ ) but still. The place is the best protected settlement in the entirety of the Commonwealth. It’s also the cleanest, and the best maintained. The people inside don’t know how  _good_  they have it, he reckons. Same way they don’t understand how much of a privilege it is, to be able to see the sky in all it’s colours without a layer of dust and radioactive ash to cloud it. Same way they don’t understand how lucky they are to have air as fresh as this.

The bad thing is that it takes  _forever_  for the gates to open.

By the time the beast is finally up, MacCready finds himself stifling a yawn, rifle slung across his back. Gasmask is standing as rigid as ever, staring forward, and MacCready vaguely wonders if the guy ever loosens up. Not that it’s his business anyway. The guards give himself and Gasmask a suspicious eye, no doubt because they  _definitely_  look the part of dangerous mercenaries, but they say nothing. Probably because Valentine is leading them in, and they all greet the detective warmly. ( _I_ _dly, he notes how each greeting seems to relax Gasmask’s shoulders just that little bit more._ )

Diamond City is still fast asleep, by the time they enter. The stalls are all closed, and even Takahashi is still, probably charging or something. A hushed silence falls over the place like a blanket, and it’s peaceful, in a way. He takes a moment to stretch a little, savouring the fresh almost-morning air, while Valentine turns to Gasmask, nodding.

“Thanks for bringin’ me back, kid. I’m sure Ellie’s got a reward waiting for you, whether you discussed it or not.” Valentine states, his voice low in the hushed twilight. “Now I know you need my help too, and I doubt you two have a place to stay. Follow me to my agency. You can tell me all about your missing kin, and you can stay in the bedroom upstairs.”

Gasmask stiffens a little at this. “Are you — “

“Am I sure? I am. Don’t know if you’ve guessed but I don’t really need sleep, and Ellie has her own place. And besides,  _that_  one — “ Valentine gestures to MacCready, “ — probably wouldn’t mind saving a few caps.”

He finds himself snorting, not too kindly. “Gee, Valentine, thanks for deducing the obvious. Am I supposed to pay the consultation fee for that?”

Valentine only rolls his eyes, glowing yellow in the night. Gasmask doesn’t do anything. “Like I said. Save a few caps, I have a spare bed and some mattresses.”

It’s a brief pause, but eventually Gasmask nods. To MacCready’s relief anyway — as much as he’s slept in worse spots, if he can sleep in somewhere more peaceful than the Dugout, he’ll take it ( _especially if it’s free._ ) While the Bobrov brothers run a decent enough place, there’s just no sleeping properly when Vadim’s watching the counter. He likes the man plenty, and his moonshine more, but that voice could bring a Brotherhood vertibird out of the sky, if it’s anything like he remembers it to be from all those years ago. He snorts at the thought, and only gets one weird look for it.

The short trek to Valentine’s detective agency is a quiet one. Everyone’s still asleep, save for maybe a few people, if the muffled laughter behind Dugout Inn’s door is any indication, Vadim’s laughter the loudest of all. Percy’s quiet hovering is probably the loudest thing in the marketplace, and he sees Takahashi’s light dimmed. Idly, he wonders who restocks the robot’s ingredients, and who collects the caps. He doubts the robot has any use for it, but yet the ingredients for the noodles change monthly.

He doesn’t get far with his idle thoughts, though, the glaringly bright neon of Valentine’s detective sign making him squint as they pass through the narrow alleyway to the guy’s front door.

“Nick!” Is the first thing that sounds when they open it.

They barely make it inside before he sees a blur of pink run up to the detective, arms wrapping around his neck. There’s a low laugh from Valentine, and a brief hug back. The lady’s laugh is low and warm as she untangles herself from the old synth, and for a moment, MacCready wonders if she’s his lover or something, waiting for him to come home. But then he sees a metallic skeleton of a hand rise up to her head, ruffling her hair, making her squawk good-naturedly, and he scraps that idea. Probably a father-daughter thing, if anything.

Whatever relationship the two have, MacCready hopes their reunion could shift a bit further back into the place. Between Gasmask and himself, they’re pressed against the wall.

“God, it’s really you. You scared me, Nick!” The lady laughs, almost tearful, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Left me to do all your filing too. I should get a raise.”

“Don’t worry, I already thought of that.” Valentine replies, smiling easy. “But it’ll take more than a gang of Triggermen to get me away from this agency, Ellie.”

“I swear, Nick, you keep laughing at death, someday, death’s gonna laugh back.”

Valentine snorts. “Not as long as I’ve got a few friends to back me up.” The detective nods in their direction and  _finally_ , she seems to notice that they’re there. “There’s a bed upstairs and a few mattresses down here. Go ahead and put your things down, get some shut eye. Who gets which place to sleep is up to either of you.”

Gasmask seems to ponder for a second. “I have to talk to you anyway. So. MacCready can take the bed upstairs.”

Valentine raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything, and well, it’s not like  _MacCready_  can say, or wants to say, anything else. Who is he to deny a nice bed anyway? Boss’ orders.

“You got it, boss.” He says easily, shrugging, and doesn’t bother with saying goodnight as he manouvers past the three, heading up the ladder. The prospect of a nice bed is a good thought to have, especially after spending the past few months sleeping on nothing but floor and the Third Rail’s stained couches. Half the time the things are so uncomfortable he ends up sleeping on the ground anyway, so really.  _Great_  opportunity he has here. He’s going to rest the  _heck_  up.

Whatever business his boss has with Nick, they seem to get down to it as soon as he hits the top floor, quiet murmuring already heard below. The privacy is probably why he’s got the good bed up here anyway. Not that he’s complaining — Gasmask’s business is none of his right now, and he looks forward to having a good few hours of sleep instead of prying. The bed is soft and comfortable, and he doesn’t waste anytime to take off his duster and ammo holsters, tucking them into his pack, and hiding putting said pack right beside his head. His rifle gets tucked under the bed, and his emergency pipe pistol gets tucked under his pillow, just in case.

Sleep is quick to come as soon as he settles on the mattress, and the last thing he registers is the sound of crying from downstairs.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up and goes back to sleep roughly three times, the next morning. The first time is an hour after he goes to bed, because he hears the sound of a door shutting from downstairs and, sleep-deprived or not, his first reaction has been and always will be to reach for his nearest gun before his eyes even open. The room is bleary and his head spins when his fingers close around the pipe pistol under his pillow, but then there’s a call of _I'_ _m fine, Ellie, go home_  from a familiar voice, and he finds himself grunting and going back to sleep, fingers still brushing his gun.

Second time and third time he wakes is because of his own body clock. He wakes up at eight every morning, something he knows because he’s been timing it since his days in Little Lamplight, but each time he remembers that he has a free, comfortable bed in Diamond City, he finds himself thinking  _well why not take advantage of this_  and goes right back to sleeping. Boss’ orders and all that.

Fourth time MacCready wakes, he wakes up proper. His eyes are still a little heavy, but it feels good, for once, to climb out of bed. It’s been a long, long time since he’s actually woken up and felt  _refreshed_  instead of dragging himself up, and he’ll chalk it up to the comfortable bed and his own self indulgence. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, sits right up, and releases a yawn, stretching his limbs until his joints give a satisfactory little  _pop!_ As he looks around the room.

Same place he slept in last night, always a plus. A quick check through his things tells him that everything’s still where he left it, which is great. He’s never taken long to get dressed, and now isn’t an exception — his clothes need a wash soon, but as of right now they still smell mostly fine and they’re intact. For the most part, he isn’t sure if Gasmask is planning on staying in diamond city any longer, so he puts everything back on; his duster, his scarf, his cap, all his ammo holsters.  _Definitely_  his rifle, which he slings back over his shoulders. A check in his breast pocket of his inner shirt for a familiar small weight, and then he heads downstairs.

Considering it’s  _Valentine’s_  detective agency, he really shouldn’t be surprised when he sees the detective at his desk. Except he is, though only for a split second, and he finds himself squirming inside at the feel of yellow eyes on him.

“Seems like you slept well, MacCready.” The synth greets, relatively amicable. “It’s already noon, by the way.”

 _Wow,_ he slept in. He scratches his scalp at the edge of his cap as he takes careful steps forward, turning and trying not to look directly at the detective. “Hey, not my fault if I got carried away. The beds in Goodneighbour aren’t exactly top quality.”

Valentine snorts, but it’s not mean. “Maybe you should take it up with Hancock.”

“And chance giving up my VIP room? No way.”

“VIP room in Goodneighbour, huh? Not the kind of place I’d imagine having a wife and kid stay in.”

_F — crud._

Of course Valentine would ask. Last time he’d visited Diamond City ( _and the first time they’d met properly, himself and Nick_ ), he had Lucy on his arm, and Duncan in hers. Heck, Valentine had  _talked_  to Lucy, had even offered them a place to stay and ruffled Duncan’s hair. The man, more than anyone, would know MacCready on sight and ask about his family.

Doesn’t mean he wants to talk about it, though. The memory still hurts, like someone twisting the knife in his wound, and when he visibly grimaces in front of Nick, he sees the curiosity on the synth’s face dissolve into sympathy.

“She didn’t make it to the capital.” Nick says, slow, and it’s a statement more than a question.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Is all MacCready manages to force out. He tugs the bill of his cap lower, and pretends his eyes aren’t damp. “Bathroom?”

At least Valentine knows when not to prod. He only nods, and points to the other side of the place. “Round the mattresses. No door, but there’s a partition.”

He goes quickly, relieving whatever he has to before pouring a bucket of water into the toilet, watching it swirl. Diamond City’s plumbing is yet  _another_  privilege he’s envious of, and what he’s sure the residents take for granted. The agency has a  _gravity shower_ , and he’s not even sure who  _uses_  it, except maybe Ellie. He’s decent enough at least refill the bucket with fresh water for the next user, though.

By the time he comes back out there’s a pouch on Valentine’s desk, and the detective gestures at it while he shuffles a few files.

“Adust told me to pass that on to you whenever you woke up.” The detective explains. “Don’t know if you two are still travellin’ together, but he should still be around town if you need to find him. Left most of his stuff here with me.”

MacCready raises a brow. “Who?”

Valentine  _stares_ , and MacCready instantly shifts nervously. “Adust. The man who hired you? Your ‘boss’?”

 _Oh_. “I’ve just been sorta calling him Gasmask this whole time.” He admits, though he doesn’t hesitate to take the pouch. By the light clinks, it’s caps. “Adust? Doesn’t sound like a vaultie name.”

“May be, may not be. Not my place to know.” Valentine says, shaking his head, and MacCready thinks  _that’s bull_ , because there’s  _no way_  that Nick Valentine doesn’t know or won’t find out.

He doesn’t bother pointing it out though, and he counts the caps quickly. Hundred and thirty caps, and it’s enough to put a little pep in his step, a quick smile on his face. That’s over  _three hundred_  caps he could send to Duncan this month. Not the most he’s ever sent, but it’s more than enough. He’ll have to drop by Goodneighbour as soon as he’s able, and talk to Daisy about making the delivery back to the Capital.

His stomach gives a small growl though, right as he finishes that particular line of thought, so he quickly stashes the caps in his pack, fishing out a handful to put in his pocket so he can grab a bite to eat before he talks to Gasmask — _A_ _dust_ , about what’s gonna happen next. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to the detective as he leaves, but then again, Nick doesn’t bother either. The door to the detective’s agency swings shut as MacCready steps out into Diamond City’s back alley, and he hopes he won’t have to go through it again anytime soon.

The city’s definitely more awake, now, compared to when they’d arrived in the dead of night. He sees people already, hears them even clearer — vendors trying to snag some customers, some already tipsy folk at the Dugout Inn savouring breakfast, the butcher already hackin’ away. Diamond City radio’s eyebot is already making it’s rounds, and MacCready sees it sail away past the Dugout, crooning Billie Holiday.

Beyond that, though — and perhaps the most important thing of all — MacCready can smell  _noodles_ , freshly made and savoury as all get out, and his stomach gives a strong rumble as his mouth quirks into a grin. Nothing like celebrating a bunch of caps than a proper, fresh meal. The fact that he can smell spiced brahmin coming from the stall only makes him walk faster, ignoring the wary glances from Diamond City guards and settlers alike. So what if they see his rifle and peg him as a merc to look out for? They’d be right.

Diamond City market is alive as it always is, never too crowded, but always a constant, slow and steady thrum of activity, especially during lunch hours where both snobby upperstand folk and simple farmers come down to chow and shop for supplies before going back to daily routines. Today there’s seems to be something going on — he sees plastic orange tubs with faces painted on them being strewn around, among other things. Decorations for some old-world holiday, maybe, if his previous visit to Diamond City around the holiday season is anything to go by. He’s familiar with Christmas, at least. Not so much this one, but frankly, he doesn’t really care to find out so long as it doesn’t get between him and Takahashi’s noodles.

He sidles easily into the first spare seat he sees, next to a random lady who’s nose-deep in newspaper, each slurp of her noodles splashing onto the page and staining the ink. Piper’s paper, then. Must be something new, considering he spies more than a few copies lying around the city and a few more in the hands of eager readers, but he can wait until he reads it. Appetite first, and  _then_  whatever gossip or scandal or ridiculous theory Piper has in store. Though he doesn’t really believe some of it, he has to admit that most of her work is at least entertaining.

That, and it makes great pillow stuffing and fire kindling.

Takahashi is busy cooking up the next batch of noodles, by the looks of it, so he settles in for a short wait, pushing a few caps forward and snagging one of the Nuka Colas lounging out under the shade. He pops the cap and pockets it before taking a swig. It’s warm and flat, but it’s good, and he drinks it leisurely as he waits for the robotic chef to finish up the broth.

It’s been awhile since he’s been to Diamond City for longer than an hour or two at a time. Months since he’s visited, and years since he’s actually had the time to sit down and relax here. Most of the time he drops by is only to do a bit of trading before he’s off again, meeting a client or popping the head off of a contract kill. Last time he was here he barely popped in for a half hour, just coming in to snag some ammo off of Arturo before hurrying to meet his then-client, an impatient ex-raider looking for revenge. At least his current client is more considerate.

And speaking of the guy.

MacCready spots the shine of silvery hair out of the corner of his eye, by Arturo’s stall. The gasmask and the Pip-Boy only confirms his identity, standing him out among everyone else easy. By the looks of it, the guy’s inspecting a gun with Arturo offering a bit of assistance, but he either gives up or finishes whatever he set up to do, judging by the nod and handshake. And then Adust is turning walking back through the marketplace, looking only slightly lost, like he’s not quite sure what he should be doing next.

MacCready decides to throw him a rope. “Hey boss!” He calls, lightly, just loud enough to catch the guy’s attention. Successfully, might he add, when the guy turns to him. “Grabbed lunch yet?”

He watches as his boss walks over, taking the empty seat beside him. “Yeah. Had some... jerky?” Adust says, unsure, but he pushes a few caps forward and grabs a Nuka Cola himself. Cherry, by the looks of it.

“You’re missing out if you’re not ordering from Takahashi. The guy’s noodles are amazing. ” MacCready snorts, shaking his head good-naturedly. And speaking of, the chef seems to be ready. He waves the robot over, grinning. “What’s up, Taka? Set me up with some of your shima, uh... shimichanga, eh, whatever they’re called.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s the stuff.”

“Nan-ni shimasu-ka?”

“You’re damn right I’ll take two servings!”

He hears a huff of breath next to him, and it takes him a good beat or two before he realizes that Adust is  _laughing_. Briefly, maybe, and it stops as soon as it starts, but it’s there, and yeah, okay, so he feels a  _little_ proud of that. The guy’s been about as emotional and reactive as a particularly mediocre rock for the entire time working with him the past day. So what if it’s not for long? He’ll chalk it up to one of the day’s little victories, and it’s only sweetened when Takahashi comes up and places two bowls of steaming hot noodles in front of him.

“I’m telling you, you’re missing out.” He tempts, picking up the chopsticks.  _God_ , the noodles smell divine. He doesn’t know what’s in here exactly, the ingredients changing every month, but he can see shreds of spiced brahmin meat floating in the thick, cloudy broth.  _Mm_.

“I’ll pass, but thanks.” Adust replies, and MacCready swears there’s a hint of amusement in there. The guy’s hands are toying with the Nuka Cola bottle, not even opened yet. “... Chimichangas weren’t even Japanese, you know.”

MacCready raises a brow, looking at Adust with a mouthful of noodles. “Whff?”

Another brief huff of air that could be as easily a chuckle as easily as it could not be. “Chimichangas. What you said. They’re deep-fried burritos.”

MacCready snorts, and proceeds to slurp down his mouthful of noodles. Damn, there’s even fresh tato chunks in here. “Whatever you say, boss. I’m just here for whatever Takahashi’s dishing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adust’s head tilt a slight to the left. Thinking, maybe, but he can’t tell the expression with the gasmask in the way. For a moment he sort of hopes the guy would just hurry up and pop that Nuka Cola already, so he can see his face — but, nope, he just keeps rolling it in his palms. Warming it, maybe, not that MacCready can see the appeal in it. Warm Nuka Cola is the standard here, but he’s always preferred his cold wherever he can get it that way.

The silence is at least companionable instead of awkward, and he’s more than content on starting his second bowl when Adust finally speaks up again.

“You call me boss.” The guy says. A statement, not a question.

MacCready glances at him, blowing on his noodles. “Uh, yeah. Remember? You paid me two hundred caps and a divvy on all the loot for my gun watching your back?”

“How long does this — ah,  _contract?_  Or something. How long does it last?”

Good question. MacCready frowns, a little, lowering his chopsticks. Well, he  _could_  go back to Goodneighbour. Technically, his job’s over — the guy paid him for his help on a rescue mission, and the mission’s done, with Valentine back in his office safe and sound. By all rights, he could just call it quits now and head back to the Third Rail, waiting for new clients in the VIP room.

But at the same time he sort of — doesn’t  _want_  to. His clients have been going dry for months now. His last contract was a month ago, and then before that it was maybe two small jobs that barely paid. And now that there are _G_ _unners_  near Goodneighbour territory, camping out in the Mass Fusion building with no intention to leave, he’s starting to  _really_  reconsider going back.

MacCready looks back at Adust. “You planning on going out on the road a whole lot?”

A shift. Maybe uncomfortable. “Probably. Looks like it, anyway. The, uh. Minutemen are looking for my help.”

His brows rise, feels a familiar coldness that comes with the name of the group. "Thought they all died out in Quincy.”

“Not all of them.” Adust replies. “But most of them. That’s why they’re asking for my help, I guess. Clearing out raiders. More rescue missions.”

Definitely sounds like going out on the road, alright. And if there’s anything he knows about the Minutemen, is that they take care of their own. Which means caps for Adust, even though it might not be a whole lot, which means caps for  _him_ , if he tags along. Not to mention all the loot they could get going out on these rescues. And worst case scenario, he doesn't get much and heads back to the Third Rail. Simple. Easy.

He shrugs, finally, and takes another mouthful of noodles and swallows them without chewing. “If we can keep splitting the loot, then yeah. You still got me, boss.”

The bottle in Adust’s palms stop rolling, and there’s a pause. A few beats of silence, which MacCready gladly fills with the sound of him guzzling noodles.

“Do you mind if we leave Diamond City today?” Adust finally speaks up. Hesitant, almost, but almost to himself more than to MacCready. “Maybe in an hour?”

“Sure. Where we headed to?” MacCready’s answer comes easy. Frowns, but only when he realizes he’s almost out of noodles. They just never last long enough.

“Corvega’s assembly plant.”

MacCready turns back to look at him. Corvega, huh? He’s heard of a vault dweller almost clearing out the place a week or so ago. He’s not surprised to know it’s Adust, knowing the crack shot the guy is. Probably going to finish the job, then.

He offers the guy a grin. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to hit the road.”

Adust’s head tilts left again, and then nods, climbing out of the seat and making room for another customer to sit down and order some noodles. Idly, MacCready notes the bottle of Nuka Cherry in Adust’s hands, still unopened as the guy slides it into his pack. The gasmask still sits firm on the guy’s face as he makes his way down Diamond City market and to the back, probably to where Valentine’s agency is to grab his things.

 _Yeah_ , MacCready thinks, tipping the bowl of soup into his mouth to finish it off,  _yeah, we could make this work._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait this took forever hhhhh forgive me for any mistakes in terms of spelling or grammar or whatever. i should really get a beta reader. next update might take longer still, my schedule is only gonna get busier.
> 
> anyway, if hancock/nick is your thing, give [Shutdown](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5623537) a lookthrough!
> 
> EDIT: 21/6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	3. with your feet in the air and your head on the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust keeps getting lost in his head, and MacCready offers idle words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: implied suicidal thoughts and ideation, general Bad Thoughts

They’d left Diamond City at noon. One something, according to Adust’s pip-boy. He’d left MacCready to finish up his lunch ( _eating like he’ll never eat anything like it again, not anytime soon, Adust had noticed_ ) as he went to get his things from Valentine’s detective agency, both startled by the synth’s eyes and equally embarrassed, sort of.

( _It'_ _s hard to believe that those glowing eyes had terrified him just awhile before. He’d nearly shot the man down in Park Street Station, saved only by MacCready’s intervention and Piper’s words in his memory_ _._

_But then — he’d broken down in front of the man the night before, wholly and completely, forced to take off his gasmask lest he suffocate in his own tears, trying to recall the vault without choking on his own tears and spit. Going into vault 114 only made the memories worse, memories that nearly got him killed in there if it weren’t for MacCready. And then talking to Nick, Nick the open synth, Nick who remembers the world that once was —_

_Ellie had come over to rub his back by the end of it, her large palms soothing across his back as Valentine offered a kind of sympathy that could only be known by someone who knew what it was like. How it felt, to watch the world go to shit, how it felt to suddenly lose time and wake up centuries later, out of place with barely an inkling of where to turn to, everything and every loved one gone._  )

The detective didn’t say anything about the night before, except for sincere, serious assurances and advice.  _Don’t get killed out there_  and  _watch your back always_  and _I_ _promise I'll find you immediately if anything turns up_. A pat on the back. A hundred caps in his hands as a reward for the rescue. A goodbye with a promise to see each other soon.  _We’ll do our best to find your son, don’t question it_  Nick had said. And God.  _God_ , for the first time since he’d woken up in this new reality, Adust really believed it. He  _did_. All the times before he was convincing himself, all the times before pushed on only by the thoughts of Jennifer and the need for closure, but now,  _now_ , now it feels like it really  _is_  possible. Tangible, feasible. An opportunity he can hold in his hands.

He’s going to find the people who’d killed his best friend.

And then he’s going to find his baby boy.

 _But —_ for now, they have to wait. Wait, wait, wait, because there’s been no leads, and while Nick has a hunch about some character named Kellogg, Adust knows he wouldn’t be of any use, not knowing anyone in the city. And he’s not — he’s never been  _good_ , at sitting around and twiddling his thumbs. There's nothing to do in Diamond City. He doesn’t mind taking it slow, but he's used to having things to do as a distraction. But there's not much in viewing materials, these days, and going for a jog around the neighbourhood just... isn't quite as simple as it used to be.

There are other things though. Things he could do, had promised he’d do, even though whether he’s capable of doing them is another thing altogether.

( _T_ _hat, and it hurts to stay in Diamond City, today. There’s plastic pumpkins strewn around and Halloween decor sprinkled throughout the place. Meant to lift some spirits. A remnant of the old world._

 _All it does is remind him of how Shaun never got to see his first halloween._  )

So. Clearing Corvega. Again. Not that he ever properly cleared it the first time — he’d managed halfway through with the help of a protectron, and he managed to snipe out two of the big bosses, but he knows he’s missed most of those on the outside, severely outnumbered, outgunned, and also too much on the verge of a breakdown to finish the job. It was enough, sort of, to finish those on the inside, but he’d managed to take a peek into the terminals and found things that... Worried him. Reports about a group of settlers wandering, a group that sounded worryingly like Preston and the group from Quincy. Reports about a plan to strike the group when they’re able.

Like it or not, Adust knows his gut won’t stop bothering him until he finishes the job. He owes Preston that much — he owes  _Sanctuary_ that much. He's made a promise, and he doesn't like breaking those when he makes them. He can't so no to Preston.

So now he’s here. The floors are just as he remembers them, minus most of the bodies ( _thank God_.) With only a few ashpiles left, dusting the floors. It’s a good thing to know that these raiders haven’t yet replaced their losses, but it means they might strike harder if they spot him. So he keeps his footsteps light, treads carefully, checks his pip-boy every half minute and keeps his ears open. Not that they can’t handle being caught, now, by these raiders. The man at his back makes sure of that.

“Really did a number on ‘em, boss.” MacCready’s voice comes from behind him, low but impressed, and Adust glances back just in time to meet MacCready’s eyes, dark blue and intense, though MacCready won’t be able to tell, what with the gasmask in the way, the slightly cracked lenses stopping anyone from seeing Adust.

Adust doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know  _what_  to answer. It’s not like he’s happy about it — it’s just a responsibility he’s fulfilled, and not very well at that. That’s why he’s back in the first place. If he’d done it right on the first try, he wouldn’t need to be back here, but he came in with a rattling mind shivering with freezer burn, fresh out of the vault, insufficiently armed and supplied and nearly lost his life for it, and it’s  _lucky_  that there seems to be the same amount of raiders here as when he left. Now all he has to do is finish the job, and it’ll ease one of the many weights placed on his chest.

So he just keeps walking in a low crouch, keeping his mind blank of too much idle thinking, and focuses on the task ahead. MacCready doesn’t say anything else, though he  _does_  hear a small huff of air. Maybe frustration. The merc never did seem to enjoy Adust’s silence, looking unnerved and uncomfortable when they first met and now just looking half-frustrated, but with a sulky acceptance.

It’s not like Adust can  _help_ it. Being conversational while keeping his mind at a zero is hard. Being conversational, keeping his mind at a zero and being  _wary_  is even harder. It’d been easy to talk to Piper, sure, but only because they were in a place surrounded by guards and she was armed with mostly just paper and three different pens. Nick took longer, due to what he was, but Adust didn’t really open up so much as he’d  _broken down_  in front of the synth, weeping, the man’s empathy towards what it felt like to move abruptly from the old world to the next being the metaphorical straw to break the metaphorical camel’s back.

But MacCready. It’s different with him. The guy is a mercenary, for one thing, with a clear goal of gaining as many caps as he can  _(though for what, Adust doesn’t know_.) And Adust knows he’s a better shot, but only because he’s had the “benefit” of rigorous military training and fieldwork for years. From what he’s seen, MacCready’s handle of his sniper rifle isn't really correct and his posture isn’t right, which means he isn’t properly trained, and  _yet_ , the man handles that gun like it’s part of his own body, reloads like he can do it with his eyes closed and in half the time Adust can, aims with incredible precision. A skill that Adust’s sure has been honed with nothing but the need for survival and years in the wastes.

Stealth isn’t MacCready’s forte  — something Adust could tell from the moment they left Goodneighbour and out into the commons to find Valentine — but the man’s aim is  _impeccable_ , which makes him incredibly dangerous. Who knows what he could do with a little training.

Not that Adust finds him immediately dangerous. The opposite, actually. The guy, at least at a base level, seems to wear his heart on his sleeve, almost refreshingly so. Complains and whines when he doesn’t like something, enthusiastically gives his approval when he does. Had squirmed uncomfortably the first time Adust had stared at him ( _though it wasn’t on purpose, Adust had been thinking and facing MacCready’s general direction_ ) but wasn’t shy to offer commentary in the vault, or sass at him while treating him with a stimpak when he almost died ( _he’d thought MacCready would be happy to let him die and take the caps off of his body, tell the world the mission failed and Adust had gone home_ ).

Even yesterday morning, at the Power Noodles stand, MacCready cracking a joke that made Adust huff what might be his first real laugh since he’s woken up in this world. Last night they’d worked together to clear the ghouls they ran into at Lexington, had found an empty raider place up on the bridge across from Corvega together. MacCready skinned the squirrels they’d found, Adust had cooked them. MacCready had taken the first watch while Adust tried to sleep in the dampness of the rain, and he’d woken up without a bullet in his back as MacCready yawned wide and unabashed and crawled in to switch places.

Small acts of trust, exchanged like pleases and thank yous. Adust guesses in the wasteland, that’s as much as anyone can do for each other, building it up slowly like building foundations.

Still, it’s just significantly far,  _far_  too early into this potential partnership to be completely comfortable around each other. Would be unwise for either of them to let down more than an inch of their guards around each other. At least for right now, they haven’t shot each other in the back or left each other for dead. It’s a good beginning, at least.

At least MacCready seems to be getting used to being asked to hang back. Following Adust as quietly as he can, dirty duster trailing behind him, eyes intense and constantly on guard, even as his mouth manages snarky remarks and quips. They’ve stopped at the second lowest level of the factory, and Adust can hear voices just around the corner. A throw of a rock makes those voices rise, and Adust counts three of them. Two on one side, one on the other. He’ll have to do this quick, they’re too close together and there’s not many places to hide.

“Stay here.” He whispers, charging up his musket.

He can almost  _hear_  MacCready roll his eyes. “As always.”

It’s quick work. The first raider gets disintegrated to glowing ashes, the second goes down without so much as a yell, and the third’s head gets a hole blown right through. MacCready’s down to help loot before Adust even says anything, and between the two of them they swap, ammo for Adust’s gun and a few stimpaks and half-finished cigarette packets for MacCready. The rest of the way down is easier, with most of the raiders dispersed and scattered individually or in twos, making picking them off one by one a smoother and quieter process. By the time they hit the basement, the factory is more or less quiet, save for the turret that helps them take down the ghouls and one of the last heads of the raider nest.

(  _Adust notes, just idly, the way MacCready’s rifle went up in less than a second when they saw the ferals running at the turret, the sharp inhale of breath, the wary step back._  )

Outside is both better and worse. It’s afternoon when they finally open back up to fresh Commonwealth air, and the sun is high and bright in the sky. Means that the raiders are easier to spot, sure, but it means  _they’re_  easy to spot too.

Together they weave their way around Corvega’s outer parts, taking out raiders as quietly and efficiently as they can. Adust makes sure to be thorough — he can’t risk letting one of these guys escape only to restart another raider gang elsewhere (or right back here), and besides, he's always been a bit of a scavenger. Stimpaks, chems, more ammo. Things that can keep them  _alive_ , and if not that, things that can at least be sold so they can buy the things that keep them alive. The utility corridors above ground are chock-full of useful things, and by the time they head out into the sunlight, Adust’s pack is almost fit to bursting with things.

And then a raider nearly takes off his head.

The bullet misses by a few feet, but it’s still too close for comfort, and Adust throws himself under the cover of nearby stairs, eyes wide behind the gasmask.

“Crap.” Is all he says, back pressed tight against the wall.

“You’re damn right! That was too close.” MacCready hisses at him, and he sees the guy already leaning out, squinting, using his rifle’s scope to try and find the source of the gunshots. “Where is that f —”

The word gets cut off by the sound of a bullet lodging right by their feet, and MacCready jolts, shoving himself back up against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with Adust as Adust whips himself around just in time to see a fully armoured raider come up to him, 10mm pistol in hand, looking pissed beyond words and hungry for blood, Psycho-glaze in his eyes. Adust can feel his own freezing for a split second. There’s no place to hide out here, and the raider looks like he’s about to  —

He uses MacCready to push himself off the wall and roll to the nearest pillar, shoving MacCready away in the process. He’s working on pure instinct now, and his hands are working hard to switch out his laser musket for his own 10mm, since the musket takes too long to reload and crank up to power. He fires at the raider before the burly man can make the decision between shooting at him or MacCready, and the guy gives a yell of pain as the bullet lodges into his thigh.

“You  _fucker_!!” The raider yells, falling into a limp but still holding up his pistol, shooting straying shots that still sail too close for comfort.

Another shot lands a few feet off from Adust from up above, and he swears under his breath as he hurriedly moves to the next pillar, trying to avoid getting shot from both up above and right in front of him. It doesn’t help that the burly raider in front of him just  _won’t_  go down. It’s amazing how much the human body can push through even with multiple gunshot wounds with all the adrenaline rushing around, and the chems the raider is obviously on doesn’t help. All the moving and ducking means Adust’s shots don’t line up perfectly either. He's significantly less savvy with a pistol than he is with a rifle.

It feels like forever until he finally lines up a shot that makes the raider finally crumple down, but he knows in reality it can’t be more than a few minutes. And right as he’s about to pull out his laser musket again to find the guy shooting from up above, Adust hears the familiar  _crack_!! Of a rifle, and there’s suddenly red globules of meat seemingly falling from the sky in a wet squelch. Adust’s stomach turns a little uncomfortably, but he’s seen worse. And right now, his eyes are busy looking for — ah.

Adust sees the olive green of the cap before he sees the ash blond hair, coming from around a corner. And then blue eyes, weathered duster, and —

Bleeding leg.

He doesn’t waste time hurrying forward, checking his pip-boy and vats along the way to make sure there’s no one left to worry about or catch them off guard. But MacCready makes the wise decision to finally slump down under the sort-of cover of the stairs, at least, and Adust has the stimpak in hand before he’s even there.

The wound isn’t  _too_  bad, a clean shot right through at the edge of MacCready’s left leg, but it’s bleeding enough to be worrisome. He doesn’t waste time to uncap the syringe, and he tears open the gunshot-hole on MacCready’s pants leg before administering the stimpak as close to the wound as possible, listening to MacCready hiss, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut as the stimpak knits the wound together, undoubtedly uncomfortable.

“You shot the raider.” Adust says, finally, when the wound is done knitting itself. “Up above. Thank you.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” MacCready rolls his eyes, more out of pain than any real irritation, glancing down at the now-healed gunshot wound. It’s going to ache to walk on that leg for the next day or so. “Righted myself after you shoved me away and the fu — idiot shot me in the leg. You distracted him, I put a bullet in his skull. I think that’s parts of him over there.” Jerks his head in the direction Adust had come from.

The falling bits of meat. Yeah, no, he’d rather not look there again.

MacCready’s still treating the recently-wounded part of his leg with care, so Adust decides it’s an unspoken agreement to take a break. It’s a slow walk back up to the utility corridors, MacCready clearly favouring one leg over the other, but when they get back inside it’s easier to relax. There’s a couple of mattresses in one corner, and MacCready takes a seat on one while Adust claims the other, both of them with clear views of the entrance or corridor behind the other. Guarding each other, sort of. ( _S_ _mall exchanges of trust, exchanged like sticks of gum._ )

Adust doesn’t waste time to dig around in his pack to take out packs of iguana meat and squirrel bits, and bottles of Nuka Cola. The caps from the Nuka Cola bottles get pocketed, and while MacCready seems mildly surprised at the offer of the food and drinks, he doesn’t reject them either. Looks relieved, actually, as he reaches out to take the offered nutrition — and Adust notes the sharpness of MacCready’s wristbones, sticking out like cliffs on dirt-smudged skin, and how quickly the man tears into the food, seasoning and cold iguana-sauce staining the scruff around his mouth and chin. Hunger.

Idly, Adust wonders whether the man’s just naturally skinny or whether it’s because he’s gone without food for so long. But — then again, both reasons are probable in the wasteland.

He's familiar with both, anyway.

So he puts the thought aside, and opens up his own bag of food. The meat’s all cold and not at all appetizing, but there’s not really much choice, so Adust places it down and reaches up to unclasp his gasmask. He pauses, briefly, before he does — he doesn’t know why the idea of people seeing his face beyond the gasmask is suddenly such an uncomfortable idea — but then eventually just shifts the gasmask enough that he has access to his mouth, and starts eating.

The food is alright, but he supposes it’d be better if he couldn’t tell that MacCready’s staring at him, just a little. Adust doesn’t know why, but there’s a flush of self-consciousness creeping up his throat, and he pauses.

“Uh.” He says, awkward. Chunk of squirrel halfway to his mouth.

MacCready seems to realize his own staring, blue eyes flickering up, and there’s an almost-sheepishness replaced by a smirk. “Sorry, boss. Just thought you didn’t have a face back there.”

Adust pauses, glancing up, and he finds his own half-smile coming to his mouth before he even realizes it. Shakes his head, as he finishes up his squirrel bits, reclapses his gasmask and counts out their divvy in caps. It’s a little while, before MacCready finally finishes off his bottle of Nuka Cola, putting it aside and asking, “So what next?”

“... I was told there were settlers. At Oberland station, who requested Minuteman help.” Adust finally answers, half-shrugging, pushing MacCready’s share of caps towards him. “We could go there. Give them the hand they need, maybe crash for the night. If you still want to keep following me, anyway. You’re not obliged.”

MacCready huffs, taking the cap share. “What, you think something like this —  “ he gestures to the area of his leg where he got shot, here, “ — is gonna stop me? Please. Where’s the excitement in that?”

Adust has to stifle the urge to roll his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.” He says instead, trying to keep his voice neutral, though there’s a hint of amusement he knows seeps through. "Next time I'll tell them to get the other leg."

MacCready snorts, but there’s a grin on his face. “No, you know what’s disappointing? Corvega’s cars. No fuchsia with a lime green interior? They never have them in the colour you want.”

Adust doesn’t answer that, but he finds a small smile cracking on his lips, and leaves a small breath of a chuckle.

 

* * *

 

 

“I'm really sorry, but there’s just no room.”

Adust hears a huff of frustration from behind him, but MacCready seems to hold his tongue. A good thing, even though Adust can relate. It’s been a slow journey to Oberland station — not that MacCready’s leg is holding them back too much, since the guy clearly knows how to navigate while injured from experience, but Adust had thought it’d be an okay thing for them to travel a bit slower. Not force more pain on the freshly-healed wound than necessary. Stimpaks always made the new flesh feel bruised. Was sure the settlers would maybe at least offer some shelter.

Now he knows he didn’t entirely think this through. A dumb mistake on his part, acting on assumptions. It’s not the settlers’ faults, for sure; the settlement is  _tiny_ , and the room the two sisters are staying in barely holds them as is. Sure, he and MacCready could make do just sitting by the wall outside, but there’s an ominous thunder in the distance and the faint glow of green behind far-off heavy clouds that he recognizes, just once, from when he and Preston got stuck in drumlin diner waiting for those same clouds to pass over and subside.

All this and the fact the settlers are wary around them (and understandably so), and it means there’s no shelter for the night, and evening is fast approaching.

Jeanine — the sister with the longer, chin-length hair and fairer skin — looks apologetic, at least, but it’s clear she has no intention to offer them room under the same roof anyway. “I’d offer both of you bedrolls, but —”

“Not out here, not with the radstorm coming in.” MacCready interjects immediately. Mouth downturned into a sharp little scowl, arms crossed. “No way.”

Jeanine nods. “Exactly. I'm sorry. I wish I could offer better options, especially when we’re asking you to do so much —”

“It’s — fine. It’s fine.” Adust finally answers, sighing. “We’ll make do. Thanks.”

“We’ll give you some supplies to take with you? As thanks. Wait here.”

Adust watches through the lenses of his gasmask as jeanine heads back in, talking in low tones with her sister, eyes glancing back and forth between them and themselves, and MacCready huffs beside him. Adust chooses to let go of his frustration, and glances at MacCready instead. The man stands like he’s fine, probably just to make sure no one can zero in on his ache and use it as a potential weakness, but Adust can tell the way he leans, slightly favouring his right leg as his fingers tap impatiently on the rifle.

“Great. I love eating tatoes in the middle of a radstorm.” MacCready quips sarcastically, eye rolling. “With two extra arms I'll be able to help you out with  _another_  rifle. Great thinking, boss.”

There’s no real venom in those words, but Adust rolls his eyes behind the gasmask anyway. “Supplies are supplies.”

“Doesn’t change the fact we’re gonna be caught in a radstorm in give or take an hour.”

Okay, yeah, that’s true. In the distance he sees a flash of lightning, and he wonders whether Diamond City has any defenses against storms like there or whether they have to go hurry for shelter like everyone else. Regardless, though he’s never been in one before, he knows better than to get caught in something with the words  _radiation_  and  _storm_  in the same name. They’ll need to find shelter, and  _soon_ , before it gets too dark out.

Sanctuary is too far, and they can’t risk going deeper into boston just for shelter, not with all the raider camps and supermutant nests around. Graygarden looks fair enough but Adust doesn’t know whether those robots will be hostile if he approaches, and there’s no time to do negotiations. Going back to Lexington will mean whatever shelter they’ll get will probably be shared with a fair number of feral ghouls, and he’s not sure if they can hurry back to Corvega in time, what with MacCready’s leg the way it is, but at this point they have no ch —

Oh, wait.

“Jalbert Brothers Disposal.” Adust pipes up, suddenly, and he catches MacCready’s eyes turning to look at him. “Won’t take us too long if we hurry.”

It sounds like a solid enough idea. Not too far off, and they’d already scoured the area earlier on out of curiosity. The previous residents were already dead by the time they got there ( _C_ _hildren of Atom, MacCready had explained, and Adust only got more confused_ ) and himself and MacCready made quick work of the molerats infesting the area. Granted, there’s barrels of nuclear waste nearby, but it’s far enough to not be an issue, and there’s closed shelter, there’s beds, there’s even a cooking pot. It’ll do.

MacCready stares, though. Deadpan. “You want to avoid radiation — by running  _to_  more radiation.”

“The shack near the radiation barrels is clear, and last we went my Geiger counter was quiet.” Adust shrugs. “Got any better ideas?”

MacCready keeps quiet.

In the end, Jeanine and her sister — Jace, she’d introduced herself as — hands them a small cloth pack containing five tatoes, squirrel jerky, and two cans of purified water. It’s not a whole lot, but it’s still something appreciated, and Adust has a feeling that it’s more of a... Consolation gift than anything else. After all, it’s not like he or MacCready look like honourable, dependable Minutemen. For all these settlers know, they look like raiders who’ve just mercifully decided to walk away instead of shooting them up, and the caresack is a thank-you-for-not-killing-us gift. A just-in-case-you-lied-or-die-at-least-we-didn’t-lose-much gift.

He’ll take it, though. Adust has never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he takes it with a hurried thanks, because the clouds look closer and heavier and greener by the minute. MacCready only gives a gruff nod before hurrying after him, and honestly, unless someone were looking closely, it’s like he was never injured at all.

They don’t bother sneaking, favouring speed over stealth, and they give Graygarden a wide berth as they jog further up. Adust keeps half an eye on MacCready — the man’s face has tightened into a scowl, and even though they’re moving at a decent pace, it’s obvious which leg he’s favouring, and the terrain is harsh and unforgiving. A  _crack!!_  In the sky and the first few pelts of raindrops fall and he hears an  _oh are you kidding me_  at his side — their jog hastens into a sprint, and Adust runs just a step behind to make sure the other man doesn’t trip or fall in the effort.

“C’mon! Jalbert’s up ahead!” MacCready yells, eyes set dead ahead. Adust nods, even though MacCready doesn’t look.

He can almost  _smell_  the radiation in the air, and MacCready is right by his side as they hurry to Jalbert’s, trying not to trip over uneven ground or the dead bodies as they run past the caged walls and garbage. The entrance to the metal shack is more and more inviting as the rain comes down harder, now in earnest, and then Adust feels a hand shoving him inside, making him stumble across into dryer air, MacCready rushing to shut the doors before wind blows the radioactive rain into their shelter.

“Oh fu — are you  _serious_!” Comes a frustrated exclamation, and Adust swivels to see the body of a Children of Atom blocking the door from shutting entirely, clothes seemingly stuck in the doorway.

The wind is starting to pick up, and Adust scrambles to help, shutting the door to the other entrance before coming over to MacCready’s side and ducking down to un-tangle the man’s clothes from the doorway. The second it does, he doesn’t waste time to shove the corpse out with his foot, and MacCready just barely avoids breaking said foot in slamming the door shut behind them. The wind howls from outside as the storm finally catches up to them, and they find themselves staring at each other, Adust on the floor and MacCready leaning against the door, both half-winded, and more than a little damp.

A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder in the background breaks the silence.

MacCready shakes his head, half-huffing. “I hate getting wet.”

Adust feels a bare quirk of his lips, though MacCready obviously can’t see it. “Same here.”

They’re not drenched, which is a good thing, but they’re a lot damper than they want to be, and there’s only swift practicality in the way they shed their outer layers. Adust’s armour gets un-strapped and put aside, and he digs around in his pack to look for any scrap of fabric or cloth to dry his hair with. MacCready’s duster is, unfortunately, less waterproof than Adust’s leather ensemble, but at least his cap’s stopped him from getting the worst of it on his head. By the time they’re done, MacCready’s down to just his olive long-sleeved undershirt and pants, and Adust has his hands half-raised to his head, about to unclasp his gasmask so he can dry his damp hair before the radiation makes his scalp itch.

He’s... More hesitant than he’d like to admit. Definitely. He’s not even sure  _why_   — it’s not like he’s been shy about his face  _before_  he got thrown in the vault, and between Preston and MacCready, they’ve more or less seen his whole face, in separate halves. But at the same time, the mask has been... Comfortable to have on. A good distance between himself and people, and also a way to hide just how lost and confused he is by everything. 

( It’s a very minor realization, that in his entire time in the wasteland, he’s never once let anyone see his full face. He’s not altogether sure  _why_  it ended up that way, but he knows it’s a comfortable arrangement. )

But still. Now isn’t the time to focus on things like that, not while there is  _radioactive rainwater_  in his hair, and besides, he’s going to be around MacCready for awhile, at least in the forseeable future. Really, it shouldn’t be that big a deal at all, except it sort of  _is_  for reasons he can’t explain just yet. But, well. It’s just the two of them in here,  _and_  he’d like to keep his scalp healthy if at all possible. So off the mask goes, with his fingers unclasping it, pulling it away from his face and letting his skin breathe fresh air for the first time in... Days, now. It’s a nice feeling.

Though it absolutely  _doesn’t_  change the fact that his eyes catch MacCready staring at him, and Adust hates the fact he can’t hide it how the self-consciousness rises up his throat and onto his face. Was easier to hide, before.

“Uh.” Adust says, finally, very intelligently, a repeat of Corvega all over again.

The merc waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing, nothing. Just — sort of thought you'd look, uh. Older.”

 _That_  makes Adust blink, the self-consciousness receding. He raises a brow. “Older —  _oh_.”

Right. His hair. Silver in it’s greying, and only barely still black at the nape of his neck. Not the first time someone’s wrongly guesstimated his age just from his hair, and it doubts it’ll be the last. It’s such a familiar question though, that it brings back a sort of familiarity to him, one that makes him almost, almost smile, a bare twitch at the edge of his lips. He sits down, slowly, on the mattress, and MacCready follows suit, leaning back comfortably against the wall. It’s small in here, cramped almost, and their ankles brush each other, but they’ll make do.

“My hair’s been, like this. Prematurely greying. Since I was thirteen.” Adust explains, slowly. Unties his hair from it’s bun, and shakes his head a little as it falls, damp on his shoulders, reaching just above his shoulder blades. “Probably genetic?”

“Must’ve been a pretty stressful life if you greyed so early.” MacCready points out, though the corners of his lips are twitched upwards. “So how old  _are_  you?”

 _You have no idea_ , Adust wants to say, but he shuts it down before it ever leaves his mouth. “Twenty-seven.”  _Two hundred and twenty-seven_ , his mind corrects.

MacCready’s brows raise. “Huh. You're old, then.”

Adust frowns a little. "That's — twenty-seven isn't old. How old are  _you_?"

"Twenty-two." MacCready smirks. "Which means you'll hit thirty before I do, and that makes you old."

Adust rolls his eyes, but relaxes, knowing MacCready's joking. MacCready's grin only confirms it, before he stands up to focus instead on looking out the door to check outside. Adust chooses to drop the topic and instead moves on to dig out the carepack from earlier, placing the food and water aside and using the cloth they were wrapped in to dry his hair and clothes. It works well enough. The thunder outside claps again, and even from his place on the floor, Adust can see out the little window on the door to find the world shrouded in a filter of green. The Geiger counter on his pip-boy is thankfully silent, at least.

MacCready gives a low whistle, standing by the door, peering out. “We’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“We’ll sleep here. Get started on Backstreet Apparel tomorrow.” Adust confirms. Places MacCready’s share of food and drink across from him. “I'll take first watch.”

MacCready turns to him, then, brows furrowed as he sits back down, cracking open the can of water. “You  _still_  want to take on Backstreet Apparel? Those settlers practically left us out there in the radstorm. We could’ve squeezed in with them if they’d let us. Could’ve huddled up sitting by the wall inside with them if they didn’t wanna lend us a bedroll.”

“They don’t trust us yet. Not like we looked like Minutemen to them.” Adust shrugs. Keeps his eyes on popping open the already half-opened tin of squirrel bits. It’s cold, but it looks seasoned, so he tears off the top of the can, and picks up a piece. “Would you trust us if we came up to your doorstep as strangers and asked for shelter?”

He glances up to see MacCready’s brows furrow, lips pursing into a thin line, eyes averted and glaring into the door.  _No argument there_ , Adust thinks. Looks like his point got across. And then, “They didn’t say they were part of the Minutemen either. Means they might not even pay us for the job. That’s caps  _lost_ , Adust.”

Adust frowns, just a little, before forcing his face back to neutrality. An active effort, since he doesn’t have the mask to help him right now. “Still. They need the help. We — I can help them. I already told them I would. Can't go back on that now, caps or not. It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to  _me_.” MacCready half-growls, and Adust’s mouth snaps shut.

Caps. Right. In the end, that’s the main reason MacCready’s even on this ride with him. Has been since the beginning, and ever since they’d left Goodneighbour three days back, Adust knows the man stashes caps like no one else. Keeps all the caps aside inside his bag, saving up for  _something_ , he’s sure. More than once he’s seen the man counting his caps whenever there’s down time, or flipping one, idly.

But it’s not his place to pry right now. He’s barely known the guy a couple of days. The guy could be saving money to buy an entire suit of power armour for all he knows — until it’s relevant, or MacCready brings it up, he won’t ask. But for right now, right  _now_ , he needs to know whether MacCready will be joining him on the morrow, because depending on his answer, he’ll need to rethink his tactics for going in. Backstreet Apparel  _is_  a tiny space, and all the more likely for it to hold a raider’s nest. MacCready’s extra gun would be tremendous help, then, and it’s not like he’s had any problems so far travelling with the guy. Though of course, if MacCready chooses to leave, it’s not like he can do much about it.

“If it helps, we can divvy the loot 70/30, like.” Adust tries, after a long pause, words slow. “Or. You could go back to Goodneighbour. I won’t stop you if you want to leave.”

MacCready doesn’t answer for awhile. Arms crossed and minus the duster, the guy looks almost smaller — a little dumb to think about, really, Adust  _knows_  they’re the same height, able to stare eye to eye if they stood, but. Still. MacCready’s face looks troubled, sulky, almost — he’s glaring holes into the shack’s door, like if he looks at it long enough it might burst into flames and melt, but nothing happens besides another flash of lightning that lights up the shack for a bit, throws MacCready’s face into sharp shadows and illumination, before fading out with a clap of thunder. Adust waits, and looks at his can of squirrel meat.

“ _F_ _ine_ ,” finally comes a sharp answer, and Adust looks up from his can of squirrel bits. MacCready’s eyes are still averted, but his shoulders are at least unbunched. Looking mildly miffed, but with a reluctant acceptance in his face. The man gets up, taking his can of water with him and crossing to the mattress. “70/30 split.  _I'm_  the 70.”

Adust blinks. “Ah — yeah. Of course.”

MacCready’s only answer is a gruff sound, and with that, the topic feels dropped. Adust is okay with that. He falls in easy with the silence, though not entirely comfortable, and gives MacCready space, getting up from the mattress and to the other one in the other half of the tiny shack. They both eat in relative silence, punctuated only by the sound of rain battering like bullets on the shack’s top and the roar of thunder, and then Adust settles in for the next few hours as he counts inventory again.

Eventually, MacCready lies down. And then, he falls quiet. Adust can pinpoint it to the exact time the man’s breathing goes steady on the mattress — 11:03 p.m., his pip-boy tells him, washing his face in pale green. The rain’s still falling on the shack’s top, though softer, steadier, and the thunder and lightning’s receded, though the sky outside still seems green. But it’s fine. It’s not like they’re going anywhere yet.

As Adust settles back, leaning against the cold metal wall of the shack, the calm of the night and the steady pitter-patter of rain makes a certain heaviness fall to his bones, like lead submerged in water. Here in the quiet, here in the dark, without MacCready's sarcasm or terrible jokes — it’s easy,  _so_  easy, to fall back into thinking about everything. It’s times like these the memories come back without anything to stop them. About before, before the war and before the vault, back when he still had his best friend at his side and his baby boy in his arms.

( The rain almost reminds him of his first... ‘date’, with Jennifer, if it can be called that at all. Buying fast food late at night on an impulse, and then getting caught in a downpour with no car. They’d sought shelter at an old bus stop, and sat there for three hours, sharing soggy fries and half-yelling terrible jokes over the rush of rain. Rain just like this. )

He doesn’t realize the teartracks coming down his cheeks until moisture drips onto the back of his hand in his lap, and he stares down at it, stupidly, for a moment or two before a fresh wave comes forward. He doesn’t try to stop it, not this time. Right now, when there’s nothing to do and nothing to distract him, when he realizes that only just over a  _week_  ago he’d been planning with Jennifer to bring Shaun on his first picnic and now she’s dead and he’s gone and Adust is still here, still alive when he  _shouldn’t be_ , for some reason —

The rain covers up his shuddering inhale, and the quiet sob that comes out of it. He misses them. Of course he does. He misses them with everything he has, misses everything he had, everything he’d worked so hard to make. They were everything to him. He’s always, always wanted family. And maybe Jennifer wasn’t who he imagined he’d ever be married to, but she was his  _best friend_  and that was already better than so many marriages he’d seen. And they’d made a family. They’d made  _S_ _haun_  and they had a home, they had a car, they had enough money to support them and they were going to be okay, because that home was going to be a safe space, a loving space, where they were just going to  _be_  and. And.

And Adust is quiet, as he takes another shaky breath. Releases it, closes his eyes, squeezes out the rest of his tears. And then he’s pulling his pack closer to him, digging around until his fingers catch on something, rectangular and familiar, pulling out _R_ _ed Menace._ A RobCo game. It’s never been his favourite, not with all it implies and not with who he is, but right now, it’s not like it even matters anymore. Right now there are other things people have to focus on, like survival. Like seeing the next sunrise. Like being able to see his baby boy again, someway, somehow.

Right now he just needs a distraction, needs something to keep his mind away from everything he’s lost in such a short period of time, needs something to keep his mind in a flat static because while it’s easier, now, to ignore the call of his pistol to put a bullet through his brain, easier because the reality and possibility of getting Shaun back is  _there_ , is almost tangible in his grasp — he wants, as much as possible, to keep his meltdowns around MacCready to a minimum.

For the most part, the man himself is curled up on the other mattress, as asleep as the weather will allow, even as Adust sits just three steps away, trembling. MacCready’s curled almost entirely into a ball, muscles tense in trying to keep the cold out, ratty duster pulled over himself like a makeshift blanket. Not that it’ll do much, against Commonwealth chill — he looks almost smaller, like he’s trying to fold in on himself to conserve warmth.

Yeah. They have other things to worry about. Other things to reserve energy for. A whole bunch of raiders to take out tomorrow, in a closed, limited space, and then more walking across the city if they survive that. He doesn’t need another breakdown right now, not with MacCready in such close proximity. Doesn’t need to wake him up with Adust's crying, just because Adust can’t pull his mind together.

So he tries his best, again, to keep his mind at a big, fat zero. Tries to focus on the drum of rain on the rooftop as he silently gets up and slips his leather jacket off of his shoulders. Thinks about nothing but the whistle of the wind outside as he lays the jacket over MacCready, an extra layer of warmth, before crawling back to his own space and sitting up against the wall. The light of the pip-boy screen tints his face green, and he lowers the volume and starts up the game, watching the barrels roll as his mind settles into a dull, flat buzz.

He plays until his fingers go numb. Until his eyes burn from staring at the screen too long and from tiredness, in equal measure. By the time it turns three a.m., he’s saved pip-girl hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. His mind is a monotone static, and he barely notices himself switch the game off, crawling over to MacCready to wake the man up. He registers MacCready blearily opening his eyes and nodding, and then himself crawling back to his side, eyes closed before his head even touches the mattress.

( _W_ _hen he wakes up the next morning, he remembers only sleepily looking outside through the window of the shack’s door. Remembers seeing the sky looking clearer, just dim, no longer a murky green, and he spares a glance to his pip-boy to see it’s six thirty. Still early. Enough for a half hour more of sleep, if he wants to, maybe even forty five if he’s self indulgent today._

_He remembers MacCready’s form, a little blurry in sleep-hazed eyes, sitting on his mattress, hands moving steadily and with precision around the hole shot through his pants. Sewing. Hands occasionally stopping to rub his arms for warmth, to make up for his missing layers._

_Sleep is coming back to Adust when he realizes where those layers are._

_His own leather jacket draped across his body, and then MacCready’s thin duster laid over that. Like a makeshift blanket, an extra layer of warmth. It’s the last thing he remembers, before his eyes shut again. The last thing he thinks about, as his mind calms to silence in this brief respite from the world, jacket and duster pulled over himself._

_He slips back to sleep, and allows himself another thirty minutes of peace and warmth._  )

 

* * *

 

 

“ _D_ _uck_!!”

Adust barely has time to see if MacCready’s listened to his own advice before he has to roll away, into a shielded corner of the room, his back pressed firm against the wall and bullet fire embeds itself in the wall he stood in front of just seconds ago. A quick glance to his right brings him slight relief — MacCready’s ducked down under one of the wooden showstands that used to be used to put clothes on, looking frustrated but alive. Right now, that’s all that matters.

The room is illuminated with with harsh lights and it’s every bit as vicious as it looks. There’s a firefight in here, and Adust grits his teeth as a bullet just  _barely_  misses his arm, whizzing so fast it whistles in his ear as it goes. There’s just three raiders for each of them — MacCready and himself have been outnumbered before, sure, in both vault 114 and Corvega, but this time it’s different because of 1) the tiny space they’re all fighting to inhabit, and 2) there’s no element of stealth here at all.

Getting  _to_  Backstreet Apparel had been easier. Adust’s laser musket had made easy pickings off the raiders waiting out front, sneaking up and shooting them straight in the head, while MacCready’s steady hands and impeccable aim had destroyed the turrets in less than a handful of solid shots. Judging from how no one came out to investigate, Adust had guessed that the raiders were either all gone or very drugged. But the windows had been boarded up, no way for them to estimate the number of raiders inside or where they were, so going in was a leap of faith — one that became a duck-and-roll of faith, when the door opened and all eyes turned on them.

The only good thing, he supposes, is that he was right with one thing — these raiders are very obviously chem-addled. Reckless, and violent, eyes glazed with the fury and jumpiness of Psycho. Granted, Adust’s pipe rifle doesn’t deal as much damage as he’d want it to, wanting to conserve his fusion cells, but MacCready’s pulled out a submachine gun, a little souvenir from vault 114. All they’ll need to do is draw the raiders out of hiding, and it’s not hard to do when half of them are shaking with anger and anticipation from hits of Psycho and Jet.

Adust leans out quick, fires a few shots from his pipe rifle that catch on one of the raider’s shoulders, and then quickly ducks back and gestures at MacCready to head to the opposite wall. His gasmask is back on, so it’s not like MacCready can read his lips, but Adust figures it can’t be that hard to understand a gesture that clearly means  _go that way_. At a glance, he sees MacCready’s brow furrowing, but no argument on his lips, and Adust fires a few more distraction shots while the mercenary creeps to the nearest dark corner.

And then things go quiet.

He counts his breaths, keeps his body still, and he can see MacCready’s eyes narrow as the man catches on to do the same. Already he can hear the raiders starting to get wary. Impatient. Untrusting of the sudden silence, and for good reason. Adust is quieter than a whisper as he slowly leans to the side and reaches for one of the abandoned store mannequins leaning against the wall. Puts his rifle on his lap, and holds firmly to the mannequin’s waist. Makes sure MacCready is looking at him too, so he knows what’s coming next.

And then, a raider finally pipes up after some seconds of silence, rising from the debris, “Hey, where'd you lil’ fucks go —”

Adust throws the mannequin out.

The result is immediate: gunfire blasts loud enough in the room to have Adust’s ears ring sharp and painful, raiders jumping to shoot at the first thing that moves. The mannequin is full of holes, and Adust has his hands on his rifle immediately, but MacCready is faster. As soon as the raiders pop out from behind their counters, the submachine gun starts firing in rapid succession. Adust doesn’t need to peer out from behind the wall to know what’s happening — the dying cries of the raiders being shot full of holes is enough.

His ears are ringing by the end of it, but it’s mostly silence after that, and it’s a  _relief_. He’s a sniper; prefers attacking from a distance, eliminating problems before said problems even realize he exists, hates fighting upfront and toe-to-toe unless absolutely necessary. But he supposes that’s why it’s good, then, that he has MacCready here. A sniper like him, but more used to improvising on the spot with little, better with upfront combat, more used to the wasteland and what to expect. Even now, he sees MacCready’s grin from across the room, wide-spun and teeth half-rotted. It makes Adust almost smile, too.

He’s never found pleasure in killing, but there’s always a small wave of relief that comes whenever he makes it out of a fight alive.

There’s still the whir of a turret, though, one that hasn’t yet detected them in it’s range, what with them successfully hiding behind walls or showstands. Turrets are almost all programmed to only fire when the subject is clear, to avoid wasting bullets. So Adust slides his pipe rifle back into his pack, pulling out his 10mm from his holster instead, loading ammo into it as he skirts the wall and approaches to the turret in the corner of the room, keeping out of it’s sights. The 10mm small, but it packs a punch, and while he wants to down this turret fast, he doesn’t want to waste his fusion cells on it either.

Taking the turret down is easy enough. Adust peeks out from behind the corner long enough to fire rounds into the thing’s body, and then ducks back into safety just as the turret registers his presence. At point-blank range, the 10mm does it’s job fantastically, which is a great thing. The bad thing, is that he’s almost forgotten that turrets have the tendency to  _burst into flames_  when they’re battered enough, and he barely gets out of the way in time when it does just that, singeing the front of his jacket slightly and knocking him on his ass.

Which — by itself — is survivable, albeit embarrassing. The  _problem_  lies when there’s the sound of the door in front of him  _slamming_  open, and revealing a very angry, very chem-addled, very  _armed_  raider boss.

It’s easy to tell that she is. Adust hasn’t been in the wasteland for long, but he’s seen enough to tell that raiders follow a hierarchy based almost entirely on power and ruthlessness. Piper had explained it to him before; the weak are meat and the strong do eat — only the best raider gets the best things. Best weapons, best armour, like the raider in front of him. Time seems to slow down to a crawl as his brain takes in the information: there’s a sawed-off shotgun barrel aimed at his face, her own face morphing from confusion, to shock, and then to  _rage_ , and then her Psycho-glazed eyes turning to him and fingers twitching to the trigger —

But Adust has the advantage of both a sober mind and muscle memory from proper military training, and the bullet of his pistol hits her square in the forehead first, blood spraying the doorframe behind her.

It felt like hours, but as her body crumples to the floor with a heavy  _thud_ , he knows it must’ve been just bare seconds. A split-second decision, with him coming out on top. The last of his adrenaline has him moving to stand before he even hears MacCready hurrying over to him, and he feels his heartbeat in his ears.  _Too close a call_ , he knows. He can’t do that again. Locks the thought in place in his mind, a lesson learnt.  _Take turrets from a distance, always._

“You good, boss?”

Adust turns, and sees dark blue eyes. He clears his throat before talking. He hasn’t spoken since this morning, over molerat jerky and Nuka Cola.

“Ah — yeah. You?”

“Not a scratch. We keep going?”

Adust doesn’t answer that, just nods, but MacCready nods back like he gets it. Granted, it’s not nearly as big, but Adust doesn’t want to risk the same thing happening here like he did in Corvega. Raiders are dangerous, he’s gathered as much, and leaving them half-picked off will only make them scatter and reform at best, and make them angrier and more vengeful at worst. Better to finish the job. He doubts it’ll stop other people from eventually inhabiting this place again, but. One less group of weapon-wielding drug addicts terrorizing people.

They loot the bodies, stuffing their pockets and packs full of ammo and chems and anything that looks remotely valuable. Then it’s through the building, past more doors, up more stairs. There’s a teddy bear with glasses holding a Boston Bugle on one of the toilet seats, making MacCready snort, and then beyond that and up the stairs there’s a room full of bags and chests and a terminal too complicated for either of them to hack.

There’s the slight clinking sound of bullets being scooped up and put into one of the many pouches in MacCready’s pack, right as there’s a  _click_  as the lock Adust’s been picking finally opens. Makes something in Adust’s chest click too, sort of, with familiarity. He’s learnt how to do things like this since his youth, and he knows it’s paid off, in a roundabout sort of way, especially when he hears MacCready make his way over, leaving a soft, low whistle under his breath as Adust cracks open the lid and starts taking out the weapons and stimpaks and armour.

“Didn’t know Vault-Tec taught sh — stuff like this.” MacCready comments, and Adust is resists the urge to release a bitter half-laugh.

“They don’t.” Is all he answers instead, and then lapses back into silence, like he always does. MacCready doesn’t try to bring it up again, and just pockets the stimpaks.

The rest of the way is easy. Barely a handful left, and more or less separated, and between all that there’s plenty of loot to grab. By the time they reach the top, their pockets and pack feels pleasantly heavy, enough so that MacCready doesn’t even make a sound of protest or annoyance when Adust tells him to hang back again, at the stairwell, hearing voices from the next room over. Two last raiders, sounding sluggish and laughing wildly enough that Adust can guess with enough certainty that they’re drunk.

The smell of beer coming through, though, should be telling enough.

Picking them off is almost too easy. The first raider falls to his laser musket without so much as a dying gasp, and even though the second notices Adust’s presence, she barely fumbles with her pipe pistol before the red laser sears a gaping hole in her head, her body crumpling to the ground. Cleared.

MacCready’s quick to jog up to him when he gives the all-clear. There shouldn’t be anymore raiders in the building, and besides the fuzzy static from the radio lying on a box, the place is quiet. Good. He doesn’t waste any time to start scavenging, and MacCready follows suit, both digging up more ammo and stimpaks, heaving armour pieces off that look remotely valuable, pocketing packets of Mentats. By the time he’s done, there’s barely enough space left in his pack to fit anything else. Diamond City is nearby — they’ll have to drop in for a bit to unload and buy more supplies. Adust isn’t too concerned. It’s only mid-day.

He taps MacCready on the shoulder, gesturing to the roof, and receives a nod before he heads up, 10mm pistol drawn in case there are any raiders still left. Thankfully, there aren’t. The sun beats down warmly as his hands scrape against the rough cement of the rooftop, climbing to stand. The weather looks fine — the sun is shining brightly, the sky clear. There’s chems strewn around and boxes probably full of ammo and alcohol, and a sofa, of all things, sitting around.

Just a little over a week ago, this would’ve been perfect weather. He’s always been fonder of warmer days than cold ones. Just a little over a week ago, and he knows this sort of weather would make him want to curl up in bed, catnapping in the sunspot he knows he occupies, his son maybe in his arms or by his side and tucked safely in. Jennifer would be in the living room on the piano, relishing the afternoon peace. He’d be dozing, comfortable, Shaun asleep with him, Jennifer’s voice harmonic and beautifully sweet, and they’d be  _happy_.

But then the world came crashing down on them, had swallowed them whole, and for some reason he’s the only one coming out of it alive, chewed up and spat out and confused. And even now, as he stares out into the Commonwealth, across buildings that used to hold people, streets that used to breathe with the thrum and pulse of life — it’s like a dream. Like a  _nightmare_ , one he just can’t seem to wake up from. Like he’s not-quite-here, floating by and trying to simultaneously take in and viciously ignore the current reality, like any moment now the thin veneer of the world will shatter and he’ll wake up back in his own world, maybe in a cold sweat, but safe.

It’s teetering on that edge, perpetually. Doesn’t know if he’s even  _real_ , sometimes, and sometimes it’s easier to think that than the truth. That the world as he’d known it is dead. Almost  _all_  his loved ones, dead. Gone. Left the world, left  _him_ , alone and confused and wondering why he’s been left to this, to this new world he’s never asked for, to things he’s worked so hard for and a life he’s built to be ripped away from him and leaving him raw. It’s a thought that makes his lungs want to tear themselves up, makes his heart beat rapid enough that he feels like he’s  _dying_ , his hands shaking in loose wrists and breathing feeling like he’s inhaling shards of  _glass_ , and all that he can think about is that he just wants to  _go home_.

Home, to where the world is okay and normal again. Home, where the buildings are full of life instead of rubble, where the streets thrum with traffic and the sound of people, where there aren’t decaying bodies strung up in front of groups of weapon-wielding maniacs or pounded into piles of  _meat_ around every corner, blood splatters on concrete.

Home, where Jennifer and Shaun are, where they’re waiting for him, happy and breathing and  _alive_.

“Hey — you good?”

The sudden sound makes Adust nearly  _jolt_  out of his skin, his heart suddenly pounding even  _harder_  than before, and his hand grips the pistol and he aims before he even registers who the voice  _belongs_  to. The person’s hands immediately go up into a mock-surrender, and the second he sees blue eyes, his heart immediately calms just a little, though not by much.

“Just me, don’t worry. Thought you’d heard me popping open the way to the roof.” MacCready says, lowering his hands once Adust lowers his pistol, brows furrowed. “You okay?”

He’s not. Adust  _knows_  he’s not, and he knows MacCready knows too, the man’s brows knitted, troubled, blue eyes intense but not accusing. Adust doesn’t know how long he’s been standing up here, trembling — and judging from the moisture he suddenly realizes has gathered at his chin,  _crying_   — but he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t even want to  _acknowledge_  it, not now, not again, wants to tuck it into his mental vault until he’s not out here, not in the open, not with MacCready watching.

So he just — jerks a nod, but stays silent, and turns back to stare out at the city as he tries to force his heartbeat to calm. Tries to stop the tears, hides behind his gasmask, folds his arms so his hands don’t tremble. Forces his mind to a blank. And MacCready — still watching, still obviously not buying it — he just nods back, and then looks away, going to gather up the chems and ammo strewn around before disappearing down into the building again.

The man comes back up soon after, though. Just a minute gone. This time, there’s a knock on the door leading up to the roof,  _rutt-ta-ta-tutt-tutt, two bits,_  before MacCready climbs out, and Adust is mildly grateful for the warning. His pulse is slowly, slowly calming, and he’s stopped the tears, but he still feels his head pounding, thoughts threatening to spill over and make him lose it. Those abruptly —  _stop_ , though, when Adust suddenly notices the bottles MacCready is carrying in his arms. Beer?

MacCready grunts as he puts the bottles down on the sofa, and Adust makes his way over slowly, picking up a bottle as MacCready sits down on an empty space of the couch.

“Gwinett Pilsner.” Adust reads aloud. The bottle is cool to the touch.

There’s a  _pop_  and a  _hiss_  and Adust looks over, watching MacCready pop the cap open off the bottle. “Hey, it’s free beer. Might as well.”

Adust watches as the man tips the bottle back and takes a swig, followed by a satisfied sigh. And then those intense blue eyes glance back up at Adust, and then back down at the bottles. Hint hint.

Adust moves the bottles to sit on the ground as he takes a seat by the mercenary, but shakes his head. “Not really into beer. More of a — wine, a wine person. But thanks.”

MacCready just shrugs, and turns his gaze forward as he takes another swig. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

An unspoken short break, then. That’s fine by him. He takes the moment to shove the worst of his thoughts down, focusing instead on the sound of MacCready taking quick gulps of beer, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Half the man’s face shadowed by the bill of his cap, eyes staring into the distance. The way his actions suggest that he’s relaxing — though there’s the rigidity of his shoulders, his hands and fingers, that say otherwise. Always alert. Always wary. Always thinking of something, even though he cracks jokes and sarcastic little quips wherever he can. Perceptive, Adust guesses — as needed, for any good wastelander.

Not that he didn’t already know all this. It’s just — it’s  _easier_ , to focus on the person next to him, than to think about everything else.

It’s not a very long break, and Adust checks his pip-boy right as MacCready finishes off the pilsner. 2:01 pm. More than enough time for them to head to Diamond City — it’s not that far ahead, maybe a half hour’s walk at most if they don’t run into more raiders or supermutants, and then they can unload, sell off any unneeded junk, get some supplies for the road.

Check on Nick. See if he has any information about Shaun.

“Are you — planning on finishing  _all_  of those?” Adust pipes up, breaks the silence, voice slightly awkward.

MacCready glances at him, brows furrowed. “’f course not, I ain’t stupid. Not planning to wander the streets tipsy. We can sell the rest off.”

Adust nods. Stands, dusting his pants. “Diamond City, then.”

“Sure. Planning to stay the night?” MacCready asks, getting up to shove the bottles into his own pack. Adjusts the bill of his cap.

Adust shakes his head, slinging his pack back across his torso. “Just drop in and sell what we’ve got. Buy more supplies for the road. I — I have to check in with Valentine.”

He sees MacCready’s brow rise, a question in his expression, but the guy doesn’t ask. Just nods, stands up. Adust wonders if he even  _knows_. Piper’s paper is going around, but he doesn’t know if MacCready’s picked it up yet, what with them travelling together and keeping busy. Apparently Diamond City radio’s been broadcasting about them, or Adust specifically, but it’s not like he  _wants_  to play music while trying to sneak through the Commonwealth, and even in their downtime he’s preferred the quiet. Makes it easier to hear if anything sneaks up on them.

He has no doubt that MacCready will find out eventually. Getting Shaun’s name out there — it’s part of the reason Adust’d agreed to do the interview with Piper anyway. But for now, he’s not going to bring it up. Not yet. Maybe eventually, maybe MacCready  _knows_ , but for right here, for right now, his chest still aches with every inkling of a thought of his son, and he can’t afford to break down again here. Not now.

“Hey,” MacCready suddenly says, snapping Adust back to reality. The guy’s got his pack back on, and his rifle at ready. Looking at Adust. “Think we could, uh, drop by Goodneighbour anytime soon?”

Goodneighbour? “Ah — sure. Yeah. Are you in a hurry?” Adust asks.

“Sort of. Within the week would be fine.” MacCready half-shrugs. “Gotta drop something off at a friend’s. Then we can go wherever.”

Adust nods. “We can go. After Diamond City.”

MacCready nods right back,  _fair enough_ , and heads for the door leading downstairs. Adust follows suit, footsteps echoing behind them. From their vantage point on the rooftop, Adust hadn’t seen any raiders or any other unsavoury looking people wandering down the streets, so he can only hope their way to Diamond City will be quick and uneventful. Hopes that the quiet of the city and the wind blowing through the old buildings won’t make him shake anymore than he already has today.

But then there’s a shoulder brushing against his, right as they’re about to step through the door, and Adust stops. Turns to glance at MacCready. Feels his breath still, slightly, looking at the other man’s face.

MacCready gives a short jerk of a nod. A question, but not really.  _You good_?

Adust stares, and then gives a nod back.  _Yeah_.

And then the moment is gone, and MacCready pushes the door open, Adust following after. The afternoon sun folds over them like melted butter, soaks into them, mild comforts. And then they walk. Fall into step, turning their pace to match each other’s. Both eyes scanning around them. MacCready makes idle commentary on whatever catches his interest. Once or twice, Adust finds himself relaxing, if only minutely, and replies, though brief.

The rest of the way to Diamond City, Adust’s hands are still.

 

* * *

 

 

“I am  _not_  a synth!”

Frankly, the more the mayor talks, the more it irritates him. Frustrates him, the dull sense of anger hibernating in his panic and his fear and confusion surfacing again, simmering just below the surface. Makes his hands clench at his sides, as the mayor starts spouting crap about the wall and trust and what-have-you. Starts proclaiming about how he definitely  _isn’t_  a synth, how Piper’s paper is disgusting. (Adust notes, in the back of his mind, the reporter herself standing far at the back, leaning against a wall while Nat stands beside her, looking equally miffed, both sisters with their arms crossed. Unimpressed.)

Piper’s said it, Nick and Ellie had said it, even the lady down in the Fallons’ basement had said it. People going missing, and the mayor standing idly by.  _This man_ , so scared of rocking the boat that he’s letting everyone else drown. People apparently going missing in his  _own city_ , and he’s here, trying to defend his own honour instead of  _doing_  something to show it.

It makes his knuckles turn white at how hard he’s gripping them, because  _this man_ is part of the reason he can’t find his son yet. The only person in the city who had a way of entering Kellogg’s house, and he’s refused to allow Nick and Ellie entrance. Refuses to spare guards to investigate, but refuses help from anyone else who wants to. Cares only for the caps lining his pockets, apparently, according to every person he's heard, and it makes Adust’s tongue stick to his teeth with a familiar  _burn_ , makes him mad. People like this are always the worst. People like this may not have weapons in their hands, but their actions tend to stain their hands redder than those who do.

“ — God bless this city. God bless the wall!!”

There’s a fair chorus of applaud from the audience, but a fair amount of boo-ing too. Adust can hear a hiss of  _he’s so full of shit_  from a resident somewhere to his side, and it makes him snort under his breath, though it makes his fists unclench all the same. The mayor leaves without so much as a second glance to his people, and the audience slowly filter out, Piper being one of the first. Beside him, MacCready rolls his eyes, as they start walking away from the stage area too.

It’s almost 3:30, and they still haven’t sold off their loot yet, distracted by the speech. They’ll need to drop by Solomon to sell off their frankly ridiculous amount of looted chems, and then down to Myrna and Arturo for supplies, and hopefully finish everything up before 4 if they want to get to Goodneighbour before it gets dark out. Adust’d like to check on Valentine too, see his progress, see what’s next — but the detective is out, apparently, according to Ellie when he’d met her outside Publick Occurences, trying to hunt for information. Hunting for a lead, since there’s currently no way to get into Kellogg’s house. Shaun isn’t the first thing they’re trying to find Kellogg for, after all.

Adust doesn’t know whether that makes the anxiety gripping him better or worse.

“Can’t believe he’d waste his time doing that.” MacCready grunts beside him, dragging him back to reality. “Doesn’t he know that ‘I'm not a synth’ is  _exactly_  what a synth would say?”

Adust shakes his head. “People like this only care about power. Nothing else.”

“And as long as he’s got the upperstanders wrapped around his finger, he’s got that in spades.” MacCready shakes his head right back. “People in power — they can never be too comfortable. They gotta  _serve_ , or  _this_  happens.”

A huff. “He could learn a thing or two. About being a mayor. A leader.”

MacCready laughs at that, a little cruelly, looking over at Adust. “Please. A  _kid_  could be a better mayor than that blowhard. I  _guarantee_  it.”

Adust raises a brow at that, but doesn’t ask about it. The topic is dropped anyway as they come across Solomon’s stall. Adust’s never been a fan of taking chems, nothing besides the occasional Mentat or three back in the military during particularly difficult sniping missions, but he doesn’t have an issue with people using within reason. They hand over the chems easily, syringes of Psycho and bottles of Buffout thrusted into Solomon’s hands, and he notes the gleam in MacCready’s eye at the hefty weight of caps in their palms.

Myrna is — well. She’s not quite as nice as Solomon, but she’s direct and they make their purchases as fast as possible. Supplies for their journey, restocking on purified water, mostly, and salt, to cook and preserve hunted meat with. Stims, though barely a handful since it’s all they can afford, and passes half to MacCready, who takes them without question. Adust hopes he won’t have to resort to using them at all.

Arturo’s stall is, so far, Adust’s favourite. Not for the weapons, mostly — it’s for the man himself. Friendly in a genuine way, a seasoned weapons enthusiast who sincerely just enjoys dealing with weaponry for more than just bloodlust. Even now he sees Arturo busy cleaning up a hunting rifle, humming under his breath, sweat beaded on tanned skin but looking content. Looking happy. Beyond him, Adust sees a little girl messing around behind the stall, helping her father, probably.

Arturo spots him right as they walk over, and the warm smile that comes makes Adust feel like they’re old friends, rather than just strangers looking to barter.

“Welcome back, new guy.” Arturo greets, before looking at MacCready. “And you too. The usual?”

“As always, Arturo.” MacCready answers easily, an easy grin right back. Adust wonders if they’re friends.

He browses, idly, while MacCready and Arturo barter bullets and the submachine gun they’d taken from vault 114. There’s the same weapons that were here the last time, with a few missing or added. Arturo has things ranging from pistols to swords, and there’s even something that looks like a customized  _F_ _at Man launcher_ , which is both impressive and absolutely terrifying in equal measure.

But then something catches his eye though. Something that makes him pause, and then immediately tap Arturo’s arm.

Arturo blinks, green eyes bright in the sun, before turning to what Adust is looking at and smiles. He tells his daughter to shift aside in a gentle voice, before reaching up and taking the item down.

“Ah, this was just traded in this morning. A little rough, but it’s in very good condition.” Arturo says, wiping away some smudges of dirt, before holding it out to him.

Adust doesn’t answer, as he carefully takes hold of it. It’s nothing as nice as what he’d had in the military, and not nearly as well-maintained as MacCready’s — but it’s a weapon that guaranteed better distance and accuracy than a  _musket,_ at least. It feels more secure than any gun he’d handled before this, in the wasteland. Feels comfortable, almost, stable and secure. Adust still doesn’t find any pleasure in killing, never has and never will — but he knows that this sort of weapon is comfortable just because it’s one he’s most familiar with, most adept with. And with that, it means it’s the kind of weapon that’ll have a higher possibility of keeping himself  _alive_ with, out here in this new, dangerous world.

“Copying from the best, huh, boss?” MacCready speaks up, a cocky grin on his lips, and Adust just scoffs.

Still, by the time they walk away from Arturo’s stall, his pouch of caps is almost near empty, but the sniper rifle is slung across his back. 

 

* * *

 

 

Adust isn’t leading, this time — MacCready’s more familiar with navigating the commons than Adust is, and knows shortcuts through the Commons and through abandoned buildings that Adust doubts even Piper knows. Benefits of the job, probably. Though just like her, MacCready’s way of stealth is only so good from a distance. He avoids obstacles before they even become a problem. Adust is fine with that.

The Commons are easier to navigate in the daytime, though not even a fraction less stressful to go through. Himself and MacCready had left Diamond City’s safe turrets and patrolling guards an hour ago, and now the sun is just about setting, throwing the city into sharp relief, harsh contrasts of orange and gold and shadows dotting the landscape and rubble surrounding them. Remnants of the past painted with fire from the setting sun. Right now, the shadows cast long and deep, and the skyline is dotted with buildings still intact enough to house raiders and supermutants. Gunners. Anyone, really, with a gun and good enough aim and the need or want to kill either of them. Snipers could have a field day with all these buildings, and he's tense just thinking about it, keeping his training in mind as he takes in his surroundings as quickly as possible.

And more than that. More than  _all_  of that, what scares Adust the most is how easily he can lose himself in all of this. How easy it is to think about the past, here in the ringing quiet, about how almost  _two weeks ago_  all these buildings were standing tall and fully intact. Full of people, brimming with life. How that shop over there used to be the best bakery on the street. How that place down the block used to be an elite bar and gentleman’s club, how the little cafe just down the centre used to be the best cheap diner in town. All of this, each one, reduced to — to  — to whatever  _this_ , is, now.

It’s overwhelming. It always  _has_ been, even when Preston had lead him to Diamond City, even when Piper had brought him through this same street down the commons. It takes a lot of effort to push down the panic rising in his throat, the inevitable wave of emotions that come by whenever he passes by a shop or a cafe he used to visit. Even now, passing by, he nearly stumbles over rubble and dislocated concrete because he can’t stop thinking  _that shop, Jennifer loved that shop, she always wanted to go in and try the piano, we never got to buy the piano_  and he, can’t —

“What the  _heck_  is that?”

Adust stops, his vicious thoughts halting for the moment, and he glances ahead to see MacCready looking at the same shop, eyes squinting at the now-rusty and utterly useless xylophones on display.

Adust clears his throat, a little. “Those are xylophones.”

MacCready peers over his shoulder. “Gesundheit.”

The corners of Adust’s mouth quirks, just a bare fraction of a bit.

And then they start... Talking. Nothing of significance, just — talking. In low, murmured voices, just idle comments, brief and unhurried, barely a handful of words per reply, silenced when they pass by raider camps or supermutants but otherwise there. Throwing the conversational ball back and forth through the metaphorical court. They never really look at each other while they do, too busy still being wary of their surroundings, but it’s still — it’s nice. Grounding.

( And it isn’t like Adust doesn’t know what MacCready’s trying to do. Preston had done the same thing when he first led Adust down to Diamond City. Piper did the same thing bringing him to Goodneighbour for the first time, though hers was wholly unintentional. The talking helps. He’s aware it does, it only makes sense that it does, gives him something real and here and now to focus on, to respond to, instead of falling back into memories and rising worry and panic. Granted, more often than not Adust isn't sure what to say back, and he's sure it frustrates MacCready, but still. The effort's still there. His thoughts are the same from Corvega; it's hard being conversational and wary, and he still has to keep certain walls up around MacCready. But maybe now, maybe  _now_ he's just. A little more appreciative of MacCready talking, than he was yesterday.

And while Adust knows it’s most likely because MacCready talking to him means less of a chance for Adust to get distracted and get them both killed, he feels a small sense of gratitude anyway. )

Their footsteps are light and careful as they make their way through the commons. MacCready’s steps still fall heavier than Adust’s, echoing louder through the desolate streets, but he weaves through alleys and streets like he’s been here a thousand times, avoiding danger even if it means a detour. The routes they use might be slightly longer, but MacCready makes up for it by avoiding dangers enough that they can move from walking and crouching to a brisk jog, only slowing down if they can’t avoid an obstacle.

The glowing sign of Goodneighbour shines as the sun fully dips beneath the horizon, neons shining faintly in a not-so far off distance. Their idle conversation dies as they near Gunner territory, and Adust notes the purse of MacCready’s lips, the furrow of his brow, as he abruptly turns and leads them away, giving Mass Fusion a wide berth even though it’ll take them another solid twenty minutes to get around the other streets. Adust doesn’t blame him. As far as he knows, MacCready is very unwelcome in Gunner territory. If they can avoid being shot on sight, it’d be great.

The only thing that bothers them are some mole rats that they’re quick to pick off with strategically placed foot stomps and Adust’s pistol, and a feral mongrel that nearly tears a hole in Adust’s leather pants that gets killed off the same way. Neither of them are looking forward to using their rifles if at all possible. Adust wonders if he can get a silencer for his and MacCready’s rifle, sometime.

They make good time, and it’s not too late in the night when they arrive at the doors to the town. Adust breathes a quiet sigh of relief as he straightens up, looking around to make sure there’s no one following them. The raider corpses that had lined the entrance before are thankfully gone now, and he silently hopes there won’t be anymore people trying to extort him within the walls. MacCready’s hand pushing open the wooden door shakes him back to reality, and he follows the guy in.

The city is lit low and warm in the night, as the door opens, and the streets are bustling with people. Drifters talking about places to go and where to sleep, has-beens and addicts huddled together in conversation. The neighbourhood watch are stationed, looking oddly more alert and wary than Diamond City’s guards. One of them seems to notice MacCready, eyes flickering up in recognition, a familiar smile on his face as he nods in greeting. MacCready’s face cracks open the same.

“Welcome back to town, Mac. Just finished a job?” The guy asks, friendly like, before glancing at Adust. “Or bein’ a good samaritan and helpin’ out a vaultie?”

“Half and half.” MacCready answers easily, strolling up. Adust is more than content to stay behind. He’s never been great at first interactions. “Daisy’s caravan still in town?”

The watch nods, and then jerks his head to the store,  _Daisy’s Discounts_. “Caught it right on time, it’s the last day. Better go talk to Daisy about it.”

“Yeah, was gonna. Thanks.”

“You take care of yourself, MacCready.” The guy nods, and then turns to Adust. “Would be best if you stayed outta trouble yourself, vaultie.”

Adust chooses very quickly not to respond to that, and instead follows after MacCready into the store.

It’s a small place, but it’s nice. He’d seen it, the first time he entered here, though he was — distracted, too distracted to go in and barter. Distracted by all the eyes turning to him, by the dangerous man trying to extort him, by a man who’d come up from the shadows, dressed in a ragged and red piece of history, all raspy voiced and sharp knifed, plunging the blade into the offender with a dangerous warning and then introducing himself as mayor, all in the same breath.

The most memorable greeting Adust’s ever had, if he allows himself the bitter humour.

But if meeting mayor Hancock had brought anything good with it (besides his life), it’s the guiding hand that showed him to look for the gun he needed in the Third Rail, and letting Adust know about ghouls.

Especially now, Adust thinks, as he’s faced with one at the counter. What’s left of her skin pink and puckered, looking scarred and as tough as leather, like it’d been melted off and scabbed over, again and again and again.  _Radiation_ , Hancock had mentioned,  _lot of rad freaks like me walkin’ around here_ , and Adust feels guilty for the thought, for his first reaction to them. As far as he knows, they’re people all the same. He’ll get used to it, eventually.

 _If you can even handle thinking about this world_ , his brain supplies, and he grips his own arm to stop his trembling. Focuses on MacCready and the lady, Daisy, instead. There’s a fondness in her lipless smile when they walk in, and Adust notes the ease of MacCready’s own shoulders. She sweeps the bangs of her brown hair, her arms unfolding and resting on the counter, the thumb of her left hand rubbing the side of her ring finger, and Adust feels an odd sense of — familiarity?

“Thought you wouldn’t be back in time. Glad you caught a job.” Daisy greets, voice low and raspy but pleasant, all the same. 

“As if you’d ever doubt me.” MacCready grins, before taking out his heavy stash of caps. The ones he’d earned with Adust. It makes him stare, though no one can tell. “Four hundred caps.”

Daisy smiles, and takes the stash from his hands with ease. “I'll make sure it gets there before the week’s end, don’t you worry.”

Four hundred caps. That’s — that’s not cheap by anyone’s standards. That’s most of MacCready’s  _earnings_ , money he could be using for food or gear or supplies. Adust had guessed the man was saving the caps up, but for what? Where’s the money going off to? Supplying for someone, something? Granted, he knows it’s not, not  _really_  his business to pry, but he’s been known to be curious, at times.

He’s also been known to space out, so far in the wasteland, and he nearly jolts when he hears Daisy’s voice and realizes she’s talking to him.

 _You'll get killed this way. Get your shit together_.

“My, my. Distracted, are we? Scared of a pretty face?” She half-purrs, though he can tell she’s mostly sarcastic. And then her eyes seem to widen. “Oh, hey. I saw you. You’re the vaultie Hancock killed Finn to protect.”

MacCready’s eyes widen. “Finn’s dead?”

“Yeah, saw it myself. Trying to extort this fella here.” Daisy nods, jerking her head to him. “Typical Hancock. Looks like Mason will be taking over supermutant duty.”

Adust stares back, half-frozen and awkward, and really, he needs a thousand of these gasmasks because they’re Godsent. "Uh."

Daisy falls back into a smirk.  _Where has he seen that before?_  “Well, if MacCready trusts you and you haven’t started screamin’ at me, then you’re alright by my book. Not everyone can appreciate a 220 year old face.”

Wait.

220?

Beside him, MacCready cocks a grin. “Everyone’s just jealous, Daisy.”

“ _Flatterer_ ,” Daisy laughs, shaking her head. “But maybe you’re right. Get skin like mine and you won’t need leather armour.”

“Excuse me — “ Adust interrupts, and he tries to shake off the discomfort of both pairs of eyes turning to look at him, “Did you say you’re 220 years old?”

There’s a roll of MacCready’s eyes, and a light elbow in the side. “Really, man? Gonna ask a lady her age?”

“Well, he’s a vaultie. Can’t blame him for bein’ a little lost lamb here. Lucky he’s a good shot, if Diamond City radio’s right.” Daisy says. “But yes. Or more like, 270, but it’s not like anyone can tell. We ghouls live a  _long_  time.”

270 years. Means she was around before the bombs fell, means she was born in 2017, give or take, which’d make her sixty when the nukes dropped —

Adust’s eyes widen behind the gasmask. He barely notices MacCready’s confusion and Daisy’s apprehension, their eyes staring at him as his heart pulses wildly in his chest, as he immediately unclasps his mask, shoving it up just high enough for his eyes to meet hers without the lenses in between. Just high enough for only her to see his face.

Their eyes meet.

“ _Daisy Managan_ ,” he breathes.

“Oh my god.” She says. Whispers, almost. “You’re alive.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about at this point that i should probably tell you guys that there's no....... concrete setup for this fic lmao. it's about adust and mac, for sure, but also includes the events that happen while i actually play, sort of a documentation thing, but with more elaboration. so if things look messy and the story's all weird that's. that's probably why lmao oops — 
> 
> but yes anyway there will be some canon divergences, but will follow overall storyline from the game. there's some events i'm planning to set up, but otherwise me writing this fic has more or less been "write until this shit makes some sorta sense". forgive me for the mistakes they're all mine lmdkls 
> 
> and also, new semester at uni starting in the week after next, expect slower updates.
> 
> anyway, if you'd like some post-institute ending curie/x6-88, consider giving [the body electric](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6349234) a read.
> 
> comments and kudos are all well-loved. you get cooler everytime you drop some. trufax.
> 
> EDIT: 21/6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	4. and the ones you left behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust returns a book, and MacCready hates Med-X.

The rain is steady on the roof of the Rexford. Normally, not the most welcome sound in the world, because rain means wet, and MacCready’s never been one to enjoy that particular sensation out in the open, even when he lived and grew up in a  _literal cave_. Nothing’s more irritating than damp socks squelching through the wastes, rain trickling down his neck. Even  _more_  so when said rain has the possibility to be radioactive, making skin itch and flake and turning his stomach inside out if not dried off within a few hours.

Right now, though, it’s almost pleasant. Serves for white noise in the background while he sits on the edge of the bed he booked in the Rexford, thumbing through the pages of the latest Publick Occurences, a hand running through his hair while his cap and duster lie draped over the dresser. The streetlights outside illuminate the pages, looped with handwriting only a Diamond City dweller would have, and the rain effectively silences the streets, the usual Goodneighbour gunshots either being hushed by the rain or completely not there altogether, conflicts in the streets probably postponed due to the weather.

He idly wonders if Adust will even make it back to the Rexford tonight. On one hand, Daisy’s not the kind of gal to offer shelter to just any drifter passing by Goodneighbour out of the goodness of her heart, but on the other hand, Adust isn’t just any drifter. MacCready’d stood there, awkward and confused as all get out while his boss and Daisy had (apparently) reunited over her shop counter. Was the first time he’d heard Adust laughing,  _laughing_ , loud and damp and  _grateful_  instead of his usual small, amused huffs. Was the first time he’d seen Daisy  _grin_  so damn wide. Was a welcome sight, sure, but a welcome sight didn’t make him any less confused.

“I can’t believe you’re still here. So  _you’re_  the vaultie everyone’s talkin’ about.” Daisy had laughed, delighted, a warm fondness and disbelief in her eyes so unlike her MacCready did a double take. “Heard about the vault up in Sanctuary Hills way back when, but I didn't know if you guys made it in. Least  _you_  aged in style, nice and clean on ice.”

Adust’s eyes had widened, the smile quickly fading. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

Daisy snorted. “Oh God, stop. Your guilt is giving me heartburn. I’m  _fine_ , sugar, going ghoul hasn’t hurt me none. I got used to it.” And then the smile faded, sadness on her face. “So, if you're the one in the paper, Jennifer — “

Adust shook his head. Dark eyes averted, smile gone.  _Jennifer?_

 _“..._ I’m so sorry.” Daisy’d said, slow and sympathetic. _Pained_ , as if she knew, a hand on Adust’s arm, squeezing. “Which means Shaun was...”

“Kidnapped.” Adust had breathed, pained. “I — I got someone looking for him.”

“Tell me all about it. I’ll close up early for the night.” Daisy insisted, squeezing Adust’s arm, before smiling. “Just glad something  _good’s_  been preserved in this world. Glad it’s you, even if you’re goin’ by a new name now. Don’t blame you. I'm just — I'm so, _so_ glad to see you again.”

Daisy must’ve finally remembered MacCready’s presence, because she turned around then, looked at him. Almost expectantly. MacCready shrugged hard. How’s he supposed to know about any of this?

And then she rolled her eyes, reached under her counter, and threw him her copy of the paper, along with a sealed envelope. MacCready had glanced at it, back up at them, and realized that Daisy’s hand was still on Adust’s arm, the guy’s face looking caught between relief and hesitance. Right. As curious as he was, this wasn’t his reunion party to sit in and watch on. He’s not dumb, and he  _knows_  not to pry, especially when he doesn’t know the water he’s treading on.

So he’d left, not quite sure how to feel about the relief that washed over Adust’s face. Told Daisy and Adust where he was heading, didn’t waste time to hold out his palm for ten caps that Adust immediately dropped into his hand, accepted a kiss on the cheek from Daisy, and left out to the streets of Goodneighbour, reaching the Rexford right as the rain started to fall. It took ten minutes to negotiate a double mattress in the room from Claire for the same amount of caps, but it worked.

Now, it’s almost thundering. It’s a good thing. More rain means less street fights to overhear, which means less distractions, while he reads. Catches up on news.

News that he  _should’ve_  known  _awhile_  ago.

 _Damn_.

MacCready knows he isn’t a fast reader. He still has to mouth the words as he reads for them to make sense in his head, and sometimes he has to reread things just to make sure he got the words right. But now, even as the rain outside falls harder, the words of the paper and the meanings snap and click inside his head easily. Like puzzle pieces falling into place. Books fitting back in empty slots of the shelf.

 _— He’s an original vault dweller. He spent his entire time on the inside cryogenically suspended_ —

He  _gets_  it, now, MacCready realizes. Things make  _sense_. Why Adust always seems so lost, so distracted, why he gets so quiet and shaken whenever they pass through the commons. Why MacCready’d caught him frozen, earlier today, crying behind his mask, staring over the city streets on top of Backstreet Apparel. How could he blame the guy? If Piper’s paper is right, if  _Daisy’s_  right, the man had just come out of a freezer, confused and into a world that’d left him 200 years behind, the world as he’d known it gone, swallowed up by radiation and debris.

MacCready swallows, harsh, as he flicks to the next page. The worst part of it all is that he isn’t even  _surprised_. Granted, he didn’t expect this vaultie to be pre-war, but it’s not like MacCready’s never met pre-war folk before, though they don’t all look as fresh and clean as Adust does. And Vault-Tec doesn’t have the most savoury reputation either. He’s heard the stories, heck, Vault 87 was in the  _same caverns_  as Little Lamplight. Vault-Tec isn’t a clean or ethical organization by any means. Cryo freeze might even be one of the better ways to pass the time in vaults.

But those who leave the vault, most of them are lucky enough to age with the world. Have at least an idea of what to expect, even if it’s not much. Even the Lone Wanderer, a figure MacCready’d only had the privilege of meeting a handful of times, had an idea of what to expect outside Vault 101. Even residents of Vault 81 — a vault MacCready’s only ever been on the outside of — even  _they_  know the state of the world, have aged with the Commonwealth, even in the privilege of a vault.

Adust, MacCready thinks, had no chance to do that. Just swallowed and spat out. And all of it, all the pushing and the fighting, the drive to even hire  _MacCready_ , all because —

_— you see, Adust has a son. Shaun. And even though they were in the relative safety of a vault, someone broke in, and took shaun from his parent, and that parent is now risking everything - wandering through this strange and unfriendly world of ours - in order to save Shaun from his kidnappers —_

MacCready finishes, throws the newspaper aside onto the bedside stand, and lies on the mattress with a wince.

The world isn’t fair, he thinks. It’s not exactly news, but  _damn_. Thrown into a freezer unknowingly, waking up in a new, dangerous world and having his  _child_  ripped out of his hands — MacCready knows he’s only known the man for a few days, but he can’t help but feel sympathy for him. Makes him understand why Adust had been so shaky, why his aim suffered when he went down to Vault 114. World ripped away, family ripped apart, and even though MacCready knows that Adust isn’t the only person in the wastes who’s got kin gone missing or who’s had to watch the old world fall behind, MacCready still feels troubled.

God, he doesn’t know how he’d handle it if Duncan was taken from him. Would he be willing to tear the wasteland apart to find him?  _Yes_ , he thinks.  _No doubt_. He’s already lost Lucy. Already lost so many friends who didn’t make it, in the world outside Little Lamplight. And even now, even  _now_  he’s barely holding onto Duncan, and it’s worse than being taken. His son’s being killed from the inside out. Slowly, painfully, and MacCready’s only been able to watch as the light behind his baby boy’s eyes’ been slowly fading, now flickering dimly.

 _But still alive_ , he thinks harshly, and he drags his forearm across his eyes, scrubbing away the dampness as he props himself to sit.  _Duncan’s still alive_ , and that’s all that matters, and damn it, he’s going to make sure it  _stays_  that way. Duncan being alive is the  _only_  reason he’s kept going, why he keeps going, and knowing Duncan is okay is the only reason MacCready can keep his aim straight and his mind set.

The envelope Daisy had given him sits by his pillow, already opened. He’d read it first, before the issue of Publick Occurences. A letter from Duncan’s caretakers, arriving monthly, as always, without fail, and it’d said;

_Hey RJ!_

_You’ll be happy to hear, but Duncan’s doing better! Boils still there, and he can’t walk yet, but he’s eating and he can sit up on his own! Been telling him some Silver Shroud stories, he loves them. Angela’s finally found some food he won’t throw back up later: sour tato soup. A good thing our farm’s doing so well with those crops._

_Take care of yourself down there in the Wealth, RJ. Come visit us soon. Duncan can’t talk just yet, but I know he misses you. The doc says he might even make a full recovery on his own, if this keeps up._

_Hope your path leads you to warmer roads soon,_ _  
_ _Joseph._

It’s almost enough to make him cry. Duncan’s getting  _better_   — and more than that, it’s not the first letter to say so. Two months ago the letter had said Duncan’s been awake more often. Last month, it’d said Duncan’s been able to gesture with his arms again. And now he can  _sit up_ , and maybe next month he can  _talk_  again, and MacCready feels his heart  _ache_  with the sheer  _relief_  of the thought, feels his eyes grow damp at the edges. The knowledge that Duncan’s doing okay’s been the  _only_  reason he’s been able to keep so calm, why he’s still been able to make stupid jokes even while so far away from home.

He’ll go back someday soon, visit his son for a week or two before he comes back to the Commonwealth. He hopes to make a lot of caps with Adust before that can happen. Maybe he’ll even be able to  _stay_ , if the doc says Duncan’s okay, if MacCready can save up enough caps. Maybe he can pay off the doctor in one fell swoop, and even get something to pay Joseph back with. The man’s been nothing but kind, even back in Little Lamplight days.

Maybe if he makes  _enough_  caps, he might be even able to find a place to stay, here in the Commonwealth. And he can bring Duncan along, like he’s always been wanting to. Like _Lucy_ had always wanted to.

Cleaner air for his son. He wonders if it’s too much to ask.

MacCready wipes his eyes with his sleeve again. Shakes his head. Before any of that can happen, he has to keep staying alive and keep  _Adust_  alive, so that he can make the caps necessary to make any of this happen. The doctor’s fee and the pay for Joseph and Angela to take care of Duncan’s not cheap, but if it’s enough to get Duncan better, then it’s going to be okay.

Maybe Duncan won’t even need the miracle cure, the one lying deep in an abandoned hospital,  _infested_  with feral ghouls. MacCready knows the supposed cure is lying inside. The very thing that  _might_  make his son better again.

But — but he can’t be  _sure_. It sounds too good to be true, nigh unbelievable. And there’s — there’s just  _too many ghouls_  for him to handle by himself, and it’s not like he hasn’t tried,  _God_ , he’s tried so hard, would do anything to save Duncan — but just being in there, in the closed dark space with ferals running in screaming  _hoardes_  after him — all he could think of was  _Lucy_ , all he could hear was her voice screaming  _run, run, take Duncan and GO_  and his hands shook so hard he could barely turn in time to scram, as fast as his legs could carry him, out of Med-Tek.

He’d failed, then. The memory of it still makes him grit his teeth. Makes him wonder if Duncan would be  _okay_  by now if he’d just sucked down the memories, just bit back the flashing images of Lucy’s dying yells and the ceiling caving in. Wonders if he’d screwed up, by running away, just because he couldn’t keep himself together long enough to save his son.

Except — except he  _is_. He hopes, he prays, he  _has_  to be, with every cap he sends Duncan’s way. With the news of the recent months, it’s made his shoulders feel so much lighter, knowing Duncan may be okay after all, with or without the alleged miracle cure. If all it takes is a few hundred caps every month to get Duncan the care he needs, maybe it’s all it will take for him to get better. Maybe it’ll take longer than the cure, but MacCready’s no good to Duncan lying dead among feral ghouls in Med-Tek, and it’s not like the cure’s been proven. Maybe this way is better. Maybe this will be okay, even if it means he’ll have to fight tooth and  _claw_  to rake the caps in to send over. Medical care isn't cheap, not for Duncan and his condition, but Duncan is worth more than every cap in the world.

But he hopes it won’t have to come to that. Just a few days with Adust and he’s already made more caps than he’s had in the last  _month_ , though a large portion of it’s gone straight to Duncan. Even Adust’s pockets are mostly bare, spending the vast majority of the caps on bullets and stims. For the  _both_  of them. Adust is nicer than he has to be, in this world. A leftover from the old world, MacCready guesses. He knows he'd made the 70/30 deal, but he hadn't expected Adust to just... do everything, for the both of them.

MacCready will watch this guy’s back until he’s not needed anymore, or until it’s not worth it. The addition that he genuinely sympathizes with Adust is just a bonus. And the fact that the man’s starting to be a pretty okay travelling buddy — that’s just the cherry on top, whatever that means. He hopes neither of them die before they can save their respective sons. Duncan still needs a cure, still needs to see Commonwealth sky. And Shaun needs his own father, wherever he may be.

 _Sniper dads on a mission_ , MacCready thinks, and he snickers to himself a little as he tucks the letter into one of his pants pockets.

The rain’s coming down hard now, and MacCready figures Adust will probably be back late. There’s a mattress on the floor and a mattress on the bedframe, and MacCready takes to the one on the ground. Settles in with his pipe pistol under his pillow, checks his himself for the familiar weight in his chest pocket and the letter in the back pocket of his pants. And then he settles in, ready for another light nap. No one ever sleeps deeply in Goodneighbour.

Which would explain why he nearly shoots Adust when the guy finally comes in, probably a few hours later, looking a little wet.

MacCready’s pistol is in his hands and aimed straight for Adust’s face before the door even fully opens, before MacCready’s even fully  _awake_ , and he’s groggy but hyperalert as this guy with a gasmask comes traipsing into the room. It takes the rapid hands-up surrender pose and the shine of lightning on silver hair behind the gasmask to make MacCready’s tired mind finally recognize who it is. A small part of his mind reminds him that he nearly got shot himself the same way, nearly scaring the shaky Adust on Backstreet Apparel’s roof. Huh.

He grunts, lowering the pistol, his free hand rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and Adust gratefully lowers his hands, turning to close the door behind them.

“God, what  _time_  is it even.” MacCready groans, lying back down with a  _whumpf_. The mattress smells faintly of urine and spilled Psycho. He doesn’t wanna know for sure.

There’s a small clicking sound, and then some springs creaking as Adust presumably sits down on the bed. “Um. Three in the morning.”

Which makes MacCready groan  _louder_. “Anyone ever tell you  _not_  to creep into a room at butts a.m.?”

“I wasn’t trying to creep.” Adust replies, the sound of armour being unlatched and the man’s gasmask probably being unclasped. Thunder echoes outside. “Sorry. I didn’t know how late it was. Got carried away, talking to Daisy.”

“No kidding.” MacCready huffs, eyes opening a little wider as he yawns. A particularly loud clap of thunder follows a flash of lightning, and he winces at the sound. Cool. Great. He’s not going to sleep too soon. Rubbing his eyes, he settles down to wait the worst of the thunder out, getting comfortable in case his body would like to do him a favour and get him some rest soon. He stares at the dark ceiling. Frowns a little. “… So were you ever gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Adust says, trying to sound neutral, but MacCready just snorts. A sigh follows. “I — I don’t know. I’m sorry. Didn't know how to bring it up. It was in the papers, though.”

Piper’s papers. The ones he’d chosen to skip on reading while he was inhaling Takahashi’s noodles. Why is it that the  _one time_  he chooses not to catch up on Piper’s ranting and raving, it ends up being relevant to him? He  _travels_  with the guy. It’d be nice to know the man’s a pre-war relic. Would be even nicer to know the guy’s got recent bad history with vaults. It’d have made it easier on MacCready, at least, to understand why Adust would randomly lapse into silence, or stare into space until his hands shook. Now that he knows, he can  _maybe_  help, if only by making more dumb jokes until the guy’s either too busy laughing or too busy rolling his eyes behind his mask to focus on the ghosts of the old world. Provide a distraction so they don’t  _die_.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine. Just — tell me what I need to know, when I need to know.” MacCready finally says. He’s not the kind of guy who goes prying into someone’s secrets or personal life, or go rifling around asking about someone’s past. Some things are only need to know, but when they need to be known, they  _need_  to be  _known_. Everyone’s got their own sh —  their own  _business_  to deal with. Adust doesn’t pry into MacCready’s, and MacCready won’t pry into his. It’s only the decent thing to do, curiosity or not.

But, still. MacCready bites his lower lip a moment, before piping up into the silence again, says, “I hope you find your son.”

There’s a brief lapse of silence. MacCready thinks he’s starting to get used to that, though maybe it’s just because the milky lenses of the gasmask aren’t boring into his being anymore. MacCready can’t blame Adust for struggling with words right now anyway. Not everyone’s great at talking, especially not when you’ve just woken up in a nuclear wasteland two hundred years later than everyone else.

But Adust replies, eventually, slowly. “I hope so. Or hope that Nick does, at least.”

“Diamond City’s one of the most paranoid anti-synth settlements around.” MacCready responds, shrugging, even though he’s not sure if Adust’s even looking at him. “If Nick Valentine can get the whole place to trust him looking the way he is, he’s probably doing  _something_  right. Though if you’re gonna make me go down a Triggerman hole just to hide behind corners and trucks again, I’m gonna charge you double.”

There’s a small chuckle next to him.  _Tiny victory_ , MacCready thinks.

“Noted. I — I promise I'll let you do your job.” Adust replies. “I’m not great with people. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“I dunno, man. I’ve never seen Daisy smile so wide.” MacCready offers. Talking to a  _responsive_  Adust isn’t half bad at all. “Except maybe that one time she got to punch Bobbi No-Nose for trying to steal tins of Cram.”

Adust  _definitely_  chuckles this time, and MacCready wonders just what kind of hidden emotions his visit to Daisy’s has unlocked. Not that MacCready has a problem with it. It’s the most  _okay_  Adust’s sounded in the few days MacCready’s known him, the same kind of okay Adust is when MacCready cracks a good quip, but amplified. It’s good that the guy’s getting  _some_  positive emotions back. Getting lost in the sadness of your own head’s killed more than it’s fair share of people in the wasteland, and it hurts more than bullets do.

“Yeah. Sounds like Daisy, alright.” Adust says, a hint of a maybe-smile on his voice. And then another pause. The silence punctuated by a halted breath, like Adust is thinking of saying something, but doesn’t know if he should. MacCready doesn’t push him. Just lies down and watches lightning illuminate the room, though it’s getting farther and not quite so often. The rain’s dying down. Sleep would be n — “Daisy was. A friend, pre-war.”

MacCready’s eyes flicker up to Adust.

The guy’s lying down, himself. Not wearing his gasmask, but the darkness makes his face too hard to see, save from the small light of the Pip-Boy on his arm.

MacCready raises a brow. “Friend, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, not really  _my_  friend — she was a friend of, um. My wife? My wife. Jennifer.” There’s a small hitch in the breath, here, before continuing.  _D_ _idn’t make it_ , MacCready remembers, and his own throat forces a swallow at his own memories.  _I feel you_. “But I mean, she was sort of my friend too. Daisy used to work in the New Clear Diner, down in the Commons. Cook and waitress. Made the meanest french toast this side of Boston.”

“Always been good at multitasking, that Daisy.” MacCready snickers. Doesn’t bother asking what french toast is.  _Probably some pre-war foodie thing_ , he figures.  _Like chocolate bars, and ice cream._

Adust huffs a small laugh. “Oh, yeah. Diner was essentially hers, in a way. Had the authority to kick rowdy customers out if they didn’t behave. She had a temper, but she was mostly fair. Most customers didn’t want to anger her, anyway. Daisy’s charm’s part of why the New Clear was so successful. I mean, that, and she was one one of the best looking women in the Commons.”

“ _Is_ , one of the best.” MacCready corrects, and grins when Adust makes a noise of agreement.

“Is  _the_  best.” Adust corrects, too. He sounds like he’s smiling. “She was in her fifties when we met, but she still had a line of men wanting her attention. Understandable, really. It was funny, watching her basically flip them off and get away with it. I think she’s nicer, now. But she was… she’s great, either time, honestly.”

MacCready smirks. “Sounds  _so_  like Daisy. She’s still rockin’ it now.”

“I — she was. Married, once. I think.” Adust’s tone shifts, at this one. Almost sad, sort of troubled. “But that’s not my story to tell.”

MacCready makes a noise of agreement. Fair enough. Last thing he wants is either or both of them getting into trouble for talking more about Daisy than they should, anyway. Though it’s kind of nice, hearing Adust talking so much in one sitting. The guy’s been as responsive as an unstable wall in the past few days. Sort of good, to see him looking a little less lost.

It falls into an almost comfortable sort of quiet for awhile, and MacCready’s almost sure the guy’s fallen asleep. He’s almost there himself. His eyelids feel heavier, and the rain is lighter but still steady, though the thunder and lightning are distant now. He can probably grab a few more hours of sleep, though the sunrise and Goodneighbour’s noise will probably wake him earlier.

But then Adust’s voice pipes up, into the quiet, and MacCready’s heavy eyelids flicker open.

“We’re, ah. Heading to the Boston Library, tomorrow. Clearing supermutants. Noon.” Adust says.

MacCready stifles a groan. He  _hates_  dealing with muties. Raiders, he can handle, even swarms of bloatflies, but he  _hates_  supermutants. Not only are they tougher to take down, they come in packs, and they’re disgusting.

“Fine.” He finally says, though he doesn’t stop himself from sounding annoyed by it. “Library date with muties at noon. Got it, boss. We getting paid or what?”

“200 caps, Daisy said. And I need to return a book for her.”

Well, if it’s for Daisy, then MacCready’s got a hard time saying no regardless of the pay. She’s been nothing but nice to him since he’s come to Goodneighbour, aside from the first time they’d met and she’d nearly knocked his teeth out with the butt of her gun, but ever since he’d helped get her old wedding ring back for her and got a trade deal with Daisy's caravan in return (and of course, she'd learnt about Duncan in the process), she’s been good to him. No nonsense, but he's got the sense she likes him more than most, if only for the fact she's yet to put a bullet in him. Her caravan is the reason he even still has a connection with Duncan, after all. He owes her, if anything.

“Alright, alright. Got it. Think we could get some sleep  _before_  we wrestle muties?” MacCready snorts.

Adust only makes a sound of agreement, and then silence coats the room again, save for the steady drum of rain. As heavy as his eyelids are, sleep doesn’t come quite as fast as MacCready anticipates, so he lies there a few minutes, eyes shut, just listening to the rain. He’s alive. Duncan’s alive. It’s a trend he’s hoping will continue.

He shuts his eyes, and falls to sleep as Adust does the same, in a heap of whimpers.

 

* * *

 

 

Boston Library’s the same as he’s remembered it, but then again, he’s only ever seen it from the outside. There’s been no real reason for MacCready to ever check in, and the general danger of the location had been a turn off to go scouring the place for anything worth scavenging. Even now, as he follows Adust around the perimeter, he already sees a dead mutie corpse lying by the door.  _Not_  a good sign. His eyes immediately drift to their surroundings, and checks for turrets or protectrons that might’ve killed this one.

Not that it’s easy to see  _anything_  right now. The day’s a cold one, and the Commons is a misty mess. Getting here was already hard — not  _difficult_ , but a pain, working extra hard not to run into rubble or into ambushes. And it’s cold. It always gets colder in November, the days getting rapidly brisk in temperatures, and MacCready’s not looking forward to the Commonwealth winter. Even now, he has his scarf bundled tight around him, his collar propped up. He’s wearing an extra long sleeved shirt under his other layers, but it won’t be enough in the coming weeks.

At least MacCready knows he’s not the only one. Glancing over from beneath the bill of his cap, he sees Adust breathing on his fingers, trying to warm them while also apparently looking at some kind of intercom system by the doors. He wonders if pre-war winters are as cold as the winters in the wastes. He wonders how it was like, being able to enjoy snow without worrying about getting radiation sickness. Daisy told MacCready about snow angels, once. It just sounded like a surefire way to puke your guts out later.

“What’s the hold up, boss?” MacCready asks, once he’s done rummaging through the supermutant’s pockets. Nothing of value. “Don’t tell me you can’t pick this door open?”

Adust shakes his head. “Trying to avoid it. It’s — I want to avoid getting targeted by any turrets or protectrons inside. There were a lot of protectrons, last I was here. Amped up security because of all the riots happening.”

He hears the hitching pause in the voice, and  _200 years ago_  goes unspoken. MacCready jogs over, eyeing the intercom. “Think it still works?”

He gets a shrug for his efforts. And then Adust’s hand raises, goes to hover over the intercom button. MacCready takes a step back and tightens his hold on his rifle, keeps his eyes on the surroundings. When Adust finally presses the intercom button, the pre-recorded message that plays is so loud in the ringing city silence that MacCready immediately winces, his eyes darting around to search through the mist for any other company that might’ve heard that.

“ _The library is currently closed_.” 

“Wow, couldn’t have guessed.” MacCready sneers. “What now?”

“I, uh. I had an appointment?” Adust tries.

“ _I’m sorry, but there are no appointments scheduled for today. Please call and book an appointment for a later date. Thank you_.”

Damn. He points another look at Adust.

“... I work here.” Adust tries again.

“ _Please provide your six-digit employee ID number_.”

Adust makes a small noise of frustration, and MacCready can see him starting to make a move for the bobby pins he keeps in his jacket’s chest pocket already. MacCready frowns. He’s never been  _inside_  the library, but if Adust’s sure there’s turrets and protectrons inside,  _plural_ , they’re going to be in a world of pain if they have to pick their way in and those things label them as hostile. Pre-war robots are amazing in the fact they still  _work_ , but that’s sort of the danger. But it’s not like they have a frickin’ ID number, and they can’t just guess.

... Actually —

“My ID number is, uh.” MacCready starts, piping up over Adust’s shoulder, and he sees Adust’s head whip back to look at him. MacCready shrugs back hard, before turning back to the intercom. “My ID number is 123456.”

Silence.

And then,

“ _Welcome, Mr Mayor. Please enjoy your visit! Mind the mess, we are currently undergoing maintenance_.”

MacCready feels his face crack into a grin so smug his cheeks hurt. Mayor MacCready strikes again. Even Adust stills, seeming to stare at him, before the guy’s head tilts left and there’s a small hint of a disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“I can’t believe that worked.” Adust shakes his head.

“You can’t believe how lazy people can be with these things.” MacCready cocks his grin, before gesturing to the door. “C'mon.”

Adust huffs in what MacCready will chalk up to amusement, and pushes the library door open, MacCready following suit.

The first thing MacCready notices is; dust. There’s a heavy scent of dust, like most intact pre-war buildings, something else hidden underneath it all. A different sort of smell. Kind of muted, kind of drowned out under the heavy blanket of everything else and age. A musky kind of sweet. He wonders if it’s the books. They used to smell something like this, whatever they managed to scavenge to Little Lamplight. He puts the thought aside for now, as he drops down into a crouch with Adust, moving forward as quiet and as slow as they can. He’s starting to get used to this.

The second thing MacCready notices are all the supermutant corpses lying in front of them. Not too old, but already starting to decay. Makes MacCready’s nose wrinkle, and he’s envious of Adust’s gasmask just for the smell it’s filtering out. They creep closer, and MacCready says “tripwire,” right as Adust whispers “grenade bouquet”. They share only one look, before getting straight into disarming the traps.

At least Adust is doing the nice thing of rummaging through the pockets of the decaying muties since he’s the one with the gasmask, while MacCready gets to rifle through the drawers of the filing cabinets. He grins a little, when he finds more cigarette packets. At this rate, he won’t have to buy them anymore, and that’ll save him some shiny caps. He finds a small boxful of bobby pins too, though he tosses it down Adust’s way instead when he approaches the guy, who nods his thanks.

“Found anything good, boss?”

“Unless you’d like a femur?”

“Ugh, pass.”

Adust shrugs helplessly, and MacCready only snorts, looking around while Adust throws a piece of rubble against a wall, checks the Pip-Boy for the map of the place. A closer look at the muties now, though, tells MacCready  _laser marks_ , which means either Gunners, Institute synths, or protectrons and turrets. The latter, probably. Which means he has to hope his dumb ID will protect the both of them from being shot to death by a protectron who doesn’t think either of them are mayor material.

MacCready keeps his hands on his rifle as Adust slings his over his shoulder, rummaging through his pack to take out something. A book, Daisy’s, if MacCready remembers right —  _Harry Potter_ , the title says, by some guy named JK Rowling, and the cover is a worn with age and the spine even more so, it looks well-read. He wonders how many times Daisy’s been reading this book, over and over, if it’s been around for over two hundred years.

Adust makes his way over to a terminal, sitting pretty and pink at the side of the room. It looks a little battered, more than a bit aged, but for the most part it looks a heck of a lot better than most of the other machines out in the wastes that  _aren’t_  put in local settlements or cities. He’s surprised no one’s come in here and taken it apart for scraps yet. Scavvers in the Wealth are almost as stubborn as the ones in DC, and this seems like easy pickings. Means either no one’s bothered to come in here, or it’s been defended pretty well.

 _Turrets and protectrons_ , his brain supplies him, and he agrees with it.

He watches the book disappear into the machine’s slot, and the screen flickers, Adust’s clean fingers tapping away at the terminal. He doesn’t bother to read the words on the screen — they’re too small for him to catch a glimpse of, and even if he could, Adust reads much faster than he can and skips the text faster than MacCready can read through. Not that he wants to read it anyway. It’s probably boring stuff, and  _somebody’s_  gotta keep an eye on the surroundings (though he knows Adust would probably snap around the second either of them hear anything outside the norm inside here.)

He  _does_  look over curiously, though, when the terminal makes a small whirring sound followed by a few tinny, metallic clatters. Adust bends down, and comes back up with a few rusted coins in his palm.

“What  _is_ that?” MacCready asks, over his shoulder. Quirks a brow. Old world currency?

“Book tokens.” Adust answers instead, holding it out, letting MacCready take one and hold it. “They — it was part of a book return program. To reward punctuality. You can exchange the tokens, later, for prizes.”

He squints at the tiny lettering on the token, before he rolls it between his second knuckles. A cool trick he learnt, from a friend a few years back. “What kind of prizes? Caps?”

“Uh, no. Not money, but other things. I don’t know, it changes depending.” Adust says, before turning back to the terminal and punching in a few things. Gestures MacCready over, who does so. The screen shows tiny green text, listing a bunch of different items, with what looks to be the cost next to it. Surgical journals, baseball cap or something. “Usually books, or treats. I think I won candy, once. It wasn't half bad.”

MacCready snorts, tucking the token into the front pocket of his pants. “If it ain't caps, ammo or a gun, it ain't worth my time.”

Adust does that thing again, where he leans his head a little to the left, but MacCready doesn’t think too much about it as they finish up in the room. There’s nothing much else left inside the drawers, unless they suddenly need to find some kind of use for a plastic fork and what looks like broken paperclips. Useless junk, and he’s  _not_  going to go through the mutie corpses. So, no complaints, when Adust carries forward and he follows after, keeping his eyes on the surroundings.

The main room is  _huge_  when he enters it. Ridiculously high ceilings, windows that he’s surprised aren’t smashed up yet. Furniture lying everywhere, a kind of ruin that’s everywhere in the wastes, and a bunch of books, most of them unreadable now or too fragile to open. And beyond that, a frickin’  _wall_  guarded by turrets and protectrons. He lets himself relax a little at that. So far, they’re not attacking them, which means a whole lot of good things. Means that if any hostiles  _do_  come into the library, these trusty old robots will be able to warn them ahead of time. Maybe even take care of the problem before it becomes one, if they’re lucky.

Doesn’t mean MacCready relaxes his grip on his rifle any, but he does straighten up. Takes in the sights of the place. It's... almost kind of pretty, if you ignore the rubble and the mess. The windows are massive, letting in light, made soft by the dust. The place is so quiet, so still besides the whirring and heavy footfalls of protectrons and turrets, it’s almost like the place is stuck in time. A lot of the furniture looks intact, even though everything’s a little messed up. The garden outside looks almost peaceful. Untouched. Beyond all the ruined books and broken furniture, MacCready can almost see the kind of place this used to be, if he squints hard enough. Can almost make out the ghosts of pre-war people, who had the luxury of hanging around other people, sitting in big spaces like this, just reading.

The wastes these days? They don’t usually accommodate that kind of thing anymore, not for long.

Not that a whole bunch of people can even read. A pretty big population of the wastes are illiterate, even more don’t know how to write. Learning those kind of things are sort of secondary, not nearly as important as learning how to hold and shoot a gun, these days. Priorities and junk. A lot of folk who know how to read and write try to spread the knowledge, but it’s not always well received.

MacCready wanders over to the shelves, or whatever remains of them, and looks through the books. Most of them aren’t readable anymore, but a few still have intact pages. He thinks he’s in a section for kids. There’s a lot of pictures and the words are big and bold on the last few pages that  _can_  be read, and he thinks to himself,  _we could’ve really used these kinda books back in Little Lamplight_.

Like most places, reading and writing weren’t put as firsthand priority, but it’d always been a thing, for the kids who knew how to read and write to try and teach the other kids how to read and write. Remembers Joseph and the scavenged holotapes that everyone would learn from, remembers the guy sometimes teaching him basic math while they were on patrol together. Even after Joseph turned 16 and left for big town —  _mungo_ , MacCready’s mind says to his amusement — they’d made it a point to continue the lessons, the older kids usually taking over. Sometimes those who’d left Little Lamplight would come back, never back inside, but right outside, to drop off supplies and scavenged holotapes.

( He hopes Joseph is teaching Duncan how to read and write, too, right now. )

MacCready remembers bringing old, old issues of Grognak the Barbarian up with him on patrols, sometimes. Remembers forcing himself to try and read the words by dim light, mouthing each syllable carefully. They’d always only ever had one copy of that comic book, and that’d been one of his first ways of learning to read. Sometimes he wishes he’d brought that book out with him, but he’d figured the other kids would enjoy it more.

 _God_ , he misses Little Lamplight.

He wonders how it's, doing these days. By now, even Bumble’s got to be on her way out of the caves and heading for Big Town, sixteen this year by his count. Who’s taken over teaching, who’s taken over protecting the kids’ morale? That position was still empty when he’d left, after Knock Knock had left the Lamplight with her brother. He wonders who’s mayor now? Are the dogs still there? He misses the dogs just as much as he misses everybody else.

—But he’s far away now. Can’t think too hard back on it. He misses the place, but everyone’s got to go at some point, and he’s confident that it’s still running fine. If it could do for generations before him, it can do for generations more. He has other things to worry about now, problems of his own, things he has to deal with. Needs to get caps to feed himself, needs to get caps to heal  _Duncan_ , needs to find a way to get the  _damn Gunners_  off his back so he can get around the Wealth without having to worry too hard. He hasn’t figured out how to deal with the last problem yet. He’ll probably have to, eventually.

For now, he already has something to do, looking out for Adust. And right now, as MacCready shuffles through the drawers and takes anything of interest (more bobby pins, a stale cigarette that he tucks behind his ear), he sees Adust over his shoulder, standing still and looking over fallen furniture, a hand on the surface of a broken table. MacCready doesn’t need to look hard to know the guy’s hands are shaking. They always do, whenever he freezes and starts thinking too hard, whenever he starts crying under that gasmask of his. It makes MacCready frown.

Not that he could  _blame_  the guy, particularly, can’t fault a man for being upset about losing family,  _especially_  not for being upset that the whole world’s gone to sh — that the whole world’s took a nosedive in an almost literal blink of an eye. So far, Adust’s been good at keeping his head when the situation gets hairy, keeps his shots mostly straight during a firefight. The guy only seems to get like this when things are quiet. Like crawling through Vault 114, or that night in Jalbert Brothers’ Disposal.

There’s a time and place for grieving. Everyone in the wasteland’s learnt that the hard way, except for the lucky few who get to live in places like Diamond City. You lose your head to the guilt in the middle of the wastes, and you lose your head  _literally_. And then there’s no crying over the dead when you’re on some trigger-happy raider’s welcome pike. He supposes you’ll be reunited or whatever, but it’s not really the  _best_  solution for people who still have problems to deal with on the surface, responsibilities. Like him. Like Adust.

But he  _guesses_  a library armed to the teeth with turrets and protectrons is one of the better places to be having a mini-meltdown. It doesn’t mean MacCready likes seeing the guy like this, but he can give the guy a few minutes to soak in this. He goes through the rest of the drawers and shelves, in the meantime.

“Hey, crackshot.” He calls out, finally, after awhile, voice echoing in the massive room. He sees Adust jerk back to reality, before looking up at him. “Think they got 'Killing Muties for Dummies'?”

There’s a small period of silence, and MacCready waits it out. He’s starting to get used to these tiny pauses, and it helps that it seems Adust is warming up to him too, the silences getting smaller in intervals.

“Don’t think so,” Adust finally speaks out, voice sounding damp but very,  _very faintly_  amused, “But I think bullets will do.”

MacCready cracks a smirk, and heads pass the wall of chugging turrets, trying to see what’s at the back of this place. Almost immediately, he sees a body, slumped on the ground and in the same state of decay as the muties outside. He only frowns, and wrinkles his nose as he steps forward and checks the corpse’s pockets. He ignores the gross feeling of crusted, dried blood as he digs around the pockets (it’s a feeling that never gets old), fingers moving to dig out what feels like ammo and a few caps. Poor sucker won’t be needing it anyway.

He hears Adust jog up soon enough, and he stands to watch Adust head over to what looks like a terminal, by the side. Still functional too. MacCready wonders if the poor guy lying battered and broken on the floor’s the guy who set up all these turrets and protectrons. Would certainly make sense why a whole bunch of the loot around here hasn’t been scavenged yet, like this working terminal.

Not that MacCready gets very far with that thinking, when there’s the sound of a miniature  _explosion_ , and the familiar roar of supermutants.

“Hostiles detected.” The protectrons beep dangerously, in unison, lights flashing red.

“ _Attention. Security breach near rear entrance. Visitors and employees are advised to seek cover and remain calm_.” The PA system chirps.

He bites back a curse, and whips around to look at Adust, who’s hands have moved from the keyboard to his rifle again.

“C’mon, we’ve got muties in the building!” MacCready hisses, glad that they’re sort of hidden behind the cover of the sandbag wall and the turrets, but dreading the sound of heavy footfalls coming closer.

Adust takes a brief second to think, but it’s quick as he shuts down the terminal again. “Go to the other side, I’ll stay here. The protectrons and turrets should keep the mutants at a distance while we take off their heads.”

“Sure,  _maybe_ , but if they make it past, we’re cornered and  _screwed_ ,” MacCready whispers back, harsh, even as he hurries over to the other side to take cover behind the sandbags again. He doesn’t like this plan, but it’ll have to do for now.

The supermutants come roaring in not even half a minute later, big, green and  _ugly_  as all get out. MacCready finds a scowl coming to his face even as the turrets and protectrons start doing their work, laserfire and bullets ringing loud in the crumbling library, and suddenly the fragile quiet from earlier’s gone. Vanished, as the room erupts into a firefight and the mutants come rumbling in, in packs, loud and bloody and dangerous.

He and Adust don’t waste any time to help out. Worst case scenario and the mutants destroy the robots, then Adust and himself are screwed, because they’re pretty much cornered here in the back. They’re gonna have to do everything to make sure that  _doesn’t_  happen, because  _damn it_ , he’s not gonna die here in some dusty old library, not when he’s only  _just_  found a way to maybe supply Duncan with a steady flow of caps, not when things might just be getting better. Dying in here would just seem anti-climatic at this point.

MacCready aims careful with his rifle, keeps his hands steady as they can. The distance and the fact the protectrons are keeping most of the muties busy means that he can buy precious time to make each shot a final one. Muties are reknown for being as resilient as they are stupid, and even though the general rule of the wasteland is “it doesn’t matter where the bullet goes as long as it hits”, that doesn’t work with muties. He’s dealt with them before, and body shots take a ridiculous amount of time to down them, and use up way too much ammo. The best way to make sure a supermutant gets down and  _stays_  down is to aim for the neck and up, no two ways about it.

The resounding  _crack!_  His rifle makes when he pulls the trigger and gets a mutie right through the soft, vulnerable throat-flesh just above the collarbone rings throughout the library, echoing. The mutie goes down with a garbled, gurgled roar of  _pain_ , big, stubby fingers the size of MacCready’s wrist scrabbling at the wound, and he’s  _delighted_.

Another  _crack!_  Echoes loud above the already massive racket of screaming muties, dogs and laserfire, and a supermutant’s head ends up splattered across a nearby wall. The shot  _wasn’t_  MacCready’s. He turns just in time to see Adust line up  _another_  shot, that ends with the sound of a mutant dog cut off mid-bark, and another  _thump_. The way Adust holds the gun, the way his posture rests, the way MacCready can see the short intake and hold of air and the  _exhale_  right as the finger pulls the trigger —  _show off_ , MacCready thinks,  _called it from the start_.  _Now_  he gets why the guy snatched that rifle off of Arturo’s hands so damn fast. The man's a friggin' sniper, as he'd already guessed. And not just some waste-born one like MacCready is — by the way he shoots, MacCready's guessing actual training.  _Definitely_  confirmed now.

Between the two of them and the robots, the pack of supermutants are  _easy_. The turrets do a great job of keeping the pack at bay, the protectrons do a ridiculous amount of damage by themselves, and he and Adust work in tandem to bring the supermutants in the back down. Sure, a few of the robots don’t make it past the smashing strength and guns of the mutants, but hey, better the robots than either of them, he figures.

The last mutant yells loud and ugly as it  _rips_  the arms right off the last protectron standing, green muscles rippling horrible as the bot makes it’s last dying sparks. And then a loud, final  _crack!_  Ends the roaring howl mid-cry, blood smattering across library walls, and the place goes back quiet. MacCready glances quick over to Adust, who’s checking his Pip-Boy. Waits a beat, then two, and then releases a quiet  _woosh_  of a sigh when Adust shakes his head. The library's quiet again, no more hostiles. The last of the turrets whir quietly, and MacCready straightens up to jog over.

Adust is already going back to the terminal. MacCready rolls his eyes. “C’mon, boss, leave it.”

Adust shakes his head, fingers already tapping away. “There could be important things in here.”

“Like what, some pre-war diary entries? C’m _on_ , we already finished up Daisy’s thing. Let’s hurry up and scavenge this place and get back to Goodneighbour.”

“We will, hold on. I’m not great with terminals.”

MacCready scowls, eyes rolling hard even though he  _knows_  Adust isn’t looking at him, and decides he’s gonna make  _better use_  of his time, damn it. He leaves Adust behind, the guy now thoroughly preoccupied with cracking a terminal older than  _MacCready_  is, and goes to start rifling through the supermutant bodies now littering this library space. He has to tread carefully — there’s blood and gore everywhere, tons of weapons that could be dangerous if stepped on, a whole lot of protectron parts and bullet shells. MacCready’s not gonna live through a supermutant attack only to die because he accidentally kicks a protectron’s fusion core and explodes. Or something like that, whatever.

He weaves through, slinging his rifle over his back as he crouches and starts digging, pulling a face to himself as blood stains his fingers. He and Adust take careful shots — but the protectrons and turrets? Not so much. He pockets whatever he can find that’s useful; caps, ammo, one or two of the fallen protectrons even have fusion cells, and MacCready knows Adust would be glad to have more of those. Everything else, he leaves behind. Some resourceful, experienced people might know better things to use a fancy hairbrush for. MacCready’s not one of those people, and he doesn’t have any real aim to be.

He’s almost back to the doorway they came in from when he hears a sound. MacCready’s eyes widen, and he drops into a crouch before his brain can even react, whips around. There’s a couple more supermutant bodies lying around the hall, another ripped apart protectron in pieces, but nothing else. He frowns, and tries again, stilling his breath as he listens into the quiet, rifle trained towards the hallway.

 _Thump, thump_.

There it is again.

MacCready’s heart rate  _speeds_ , and he finds himself biting back silent curses as he ducks closer to the hallway. He hears it again — more thumping,  _heavy footfalls_  he realizes now, and he feels irritation bubbling under his skin, because there are  _more_  mutants in this library.  _It’s official_ , he thinks, as he tries to make out the direction of the footsteps because he only owns a watch that doesn’t work instead of a fancy Pip-Boy like Adust does,  _I fu — I frickin’ hate muties more than raiders_.

The footsteps are coming closer, and MacCready realizes they’re coming from a room up ahead. Probably coming up from downstairs — buildings like these are known to have collapsed floors and/or ceilings ( _reassuring_ , MacCready thinks bitterly _, glad to know the ground under me can drop any second_ ) and sometimes when stairs aren’t an option, tilted fallen rubble is. MacCready can’t tell how many there  _are_ , exactly, but he knows they’re getting closer, probably far away before but now drawn by the noise.

And he can’t warn Adust. If he makes the wrong noise, he risks giving away his element of surprise, and there’s no time for him to rush back into the huge room, do some stupid acrobatic dance across all the corpses, and grab Adust to warn him, risking  _both_  of them getting cornered and killed. And he can’t wave or anything, because the guy is  _still_  messing around with the terminal behind the wall of sandbags.  _Damn it_.

He’ll have to wing it and hope there aren’t too many,  _hope_  that Adust catches on after he fires the first bullet and helps him out. Like raiders, muties aren’t the smartest jerkwads this side of the Commonwealth, and they’re way slower, with shoddier aim. But they work in  _packs_ , and they’re also ridiculously strong. So long as MacCready doesn’t get cornered or  _caught_ , he should be fine.  _Should_. If he’s extremely lucky, maybe it’s just gonna be one stray mutie, and he can take it down without a fuss.

Only, when does life ever work out for MacCready? The wasteland doesn’t offer mercy to anyone. The second he sees a door being  _ripped_  off of it’s hinges and the hint of a green foot, he hears  _voices_ , plural. The curses rolling under his tongue threaten to escape, but he just grits what remain of his teeth and takes aim, eyes trained forward, his finger itching as he inhales and holds his breath. He has to make this first shot count, or both he and Adust are royally screwed.

The second the first mutant steps in, MacCready breathes  _out_ , and the mutant goes down with a  _crack_!

He doesn’t have time to see if Adust’s caught onto the fact that there’re new hostiles in the area. He’s too focused on trying to  _not die_ , and he immediately takes advantage of the confusion of big, hulking and angry supermutants versus a door not  _nearly_  big enough to fit them all. They’re all shoving and yelling, trying to squeeze through the tiny doorframe, and MacCready would probably laugh at it if it weren’t so important for him to not die here.

He takes out another one right as the remaining push through, and his pulse speeds up as the big green uglies are looking  _pissed_ , and spot him. There’s three of them, versus one of him. The hallway is  _not_  long enough for him to get all three before they get to him. The only real saving grace is the fact only one of the three has a ballistic weapon, a shotgun  — the other two have mean looking spiked boards, but he can afford those if he just books it back to the other room, or even outside. He has to be quick about this.

MacCready growls and lines up a shot before the mutie with the shotgun can, shoots it in the face, right as the other two come running up to him, and boards raised high and faces  _pissed_. He just  _barely_  manages to duck and roll away from the doorway and a board misses his head by inches — he can  _feel_  the air moving behind him from it — but the other catches MacCready right in the back, and it sends him sprawled across the floor as all the air gets knocked right out of his lungs. His back  _burns_ , skinny fingers scrape against the concrete of the floor as he chokes on his own air. His eyes water.  _God_ , that hurts.

 _Move, move, move or die_ , his brain starts chanting, and he struggles to turn around from his stomach to at least get his pipe pistol out of his holster and back in his grasp, but already he sees both the muties making their way over, one with a board raising menacingly and the other leading. His fingers scramble to grab his rifle, but between that and trying to take in greedy gulps of air, his hands aren’t coordinating. He barely just manages to grip his rifle properly when one of the muties, the one not readying it’s board, raises a foot.

And brings it down _, hard_ , on MacCready’s leg.

The pain almost whites out his vision, and MacCready  _howls_.

Broken. Broken,  _definitely_  broken, he doesn’t even need to look down to know his right leg is broken. Tears spring to his eyes without meaning to, it  _hurts_ , blinding enough that it almost  _doesn't_  hurt, that he almost doesn’t hear the resounding  _crack!_  Of a rifle and the mutie raising the board going down. The remaining mutie immediately snaps a hulking head to the side, looking for where the shot is coming from, and then it goes yelling and stomping into the next room. MacCready’s mind is telling him to grab his rifle, to shoot the last one now, right now, while it’s back is turned to him — but the pain in his leg is excruciating and takes up most of his attention, even through the adrenaline still coursing through his system.

He’s using the last of his thrumming energy to push himself to sit, the concrete unforgiving under his palms and each movement sending a sharp wave of  _pain_  shooting up his spine, when another shot rings out and the place falls quiet. He already knows who won this fight. He’d be happier about it, probably, if his leg weren’t so messed up.

The tiny relief coming from the fact the last mutie ( _god, he hopes it’s the last_ ) is dead only makes his brain focus  _more_  on the fact that his leg is — oh, god, it’s worse if he  _looks —_ his pants leg has a steadily growing dark red stain around the upper part of his shin, and there’s a sharp jut in the fabric that tells MacCready that his  _bone’s popped out from under his skin_. Something tells him that his knee’s blown out too, from the way it's facing the  _side_  instead of frontwards, and he swallows a bitter laugh, running his fingers through his hair under his cap as he leans his head back against the wall.  _Why always the leg_ , he thinks, _first at Corvega and now here?_

Stimpak. He needs a stimpak. No — he needs to set this bone right  _first_ , and —  _damn it_ , that’s not gonna be fun. He squeezes his eyes shut as he wills blood back to his face, trying to, he doesn’t know —  _will_  the pain away too. If he’s really lucky, maybe he’ll even be able to command the bone back into place. To stop bleeding out, because his pants are  _suffering_  right now.

He shifts — his leg shifts — the pain throbbing from his leg makes him grit his teeth hard enough that his gums hurt.

The pain is like, whenever he accidentally hits his shin against the corner of the low tables of the Third Rail, hard. Except it’s worse. Multiplied by, like, ten — no,  _fifty_  times. Fifty hundred times. MacCready almost laughs at the thought, and he’s suddenly wondering whether he’s losing too much blood. You can’t lose too much blood from a broken leg, can you? Except the broken leg also means broken skin, the bone right up and ripped through flesh and skin and — the back of his mind registers footsteps, and his hand still manages to shakily zip to the pipe pistol he keeps inside his duster before he sees a flash of silver hair.

“MacCready, are you — “ Adust says, popping through from the other room, rifle still in hand, actual  _concern_  in his voice even though MacCready can’t see his face — “Oh, god.”

“Take a picture, lasts longer.” MacCready hisses. “ _Or_ , you can help me out.”

The guy doesn’t even hesitate. Immediately steps over the mutie bodies blocking the doorway, and heads over to MacCready’s side. Drops down to his knees before MacCready can even register it, and his hands hesitantly hovering over the wound. MacCready sees the Pip-Boy’s screen. The library seems empty now, but MacCready shouldn’t keep his guard down just because it says that. Look what good  _that's_  done him in the past five minutes.

“I — I’m going to have to set the bone back before I stim it.” Adust says, low and slow, like he’s trying to console some kid. “Will probably have to cut open your pants leg.”

MacCready’s  _not_  a kid, though. Not anymore.  _Being a mungo really sucks_ , his mind provides, and the deliriousness provided by the pain makes him grin, his teeth gritting. “If you wanna see me pantsless, you could’ve just said.”

The gasmask offers nothing, but there’s a huff of a breath as Adust finally reaches into his pack to grab everything needed, and MacCready will take it.  _After this, I don’t owe Daisy jack,_  he thinks as Adust starts carefully snipping a straight line up his pants leg,  _maybe if I’m lucky she’ll help me fix up these pants for free_. (He doubts it, and in truth, he owes Daisy enough that he’d take out an entire  _nest_  of muties for her, but thinking dumb thoughts like this help him ease through the pain that’s, frankly, making his head feel all kinds of not right.)

The snipping of the scissors stop, and Adust throws it back in the pack before carefully peeling apart the bloodied fabric. MacCready can  _feel_  his face turn pale — oh,  _yup_ , God  _damn_ it, it looks way worse when there isn’t his pants in the way to block the view. The bone’s snapped, broken through his flesh and skin and is exposed to the outside world, where it absolutely shouldn’t be. There’s a whole lot of blood, more than MacCready’d  _ever_  be okay with outside his body, and — his kneecap, even his  _kneecap_ , it’s completely dislocated, it’s facing the side and it shouldn’t be,  _ever,_ facing the side like that. A lesser man would’ve puked. As it is, he just feels  _super_  pale.

He squeezes his eyes shut, as he hears the familiar  _tink_  of glass, Adust probably pulling a stim out. He hates using them (they’re expensive, and the process itself makes his skin crawl) and they only have so many, but if anything warrants one, this? This is definitely it. He’s not walking anywhere like this. He can barely  _shift_  anywhere like this.

“Hey,” Adust pipes up, and MacCready cracks his eyes open to see the familiar lenses of the gasmask, “This — it’s going to hurt. A lot. Do you — hey, don’t, don’t close your eyes — do you want a shot of Med-X?”

Ugh.  _Ugh_ , he hates Med-X even more than stims. They make his head feel heavy and dazed, and makes his neck itch. They seem extra potent in him, makes him woozier than a lot of other folk. He frowns. “I — no. No, don’t need ‘em. Can sell 'em, later."

Adust stares, like he’s unconvinced. “… Are you su —”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure, now hurry up before I frickin’ do it myself!” He snaps, and Adust doesn’t reply. He’d almost feel bad for yelling if he weren’t, you know, in agonizing pain.

It’s a few seconds of silence, before Adust finally moves. Not with the stimpak, though — his hands rise to MacCready’s neck, and MacCready frowns in confusion before Adust gently yanks on the scarf. He catches on quick, eyes wide, before scowling and nodding, moving his head off the wall so he can take off his scarf. Twist it nice and tight.  _Jam_  it between his teeth, for something to bite onto, and in the back of his mind he hopes his teeth don’t suffer for it any more than they already have. Gentle hands on his leg shut that thought off. He squeezes his eyes shut, and uses a hand to drag his cap over his eyes. He doesn’t need to see this.

He doesn’t need to feel it either, but beggars can’t be choosers and —

— his vision whites out —

— barely registers his own muffled  _scream —_

“ — cready, hey, eyes up here, eyes up here.”

First thing he registers is Adust’s voice. Gentle, but worried, anxious. Hands moving to remove the scarf gag in his mouth, and suddenly MacCready’s glad for the foggy day. No sun to hurt his eyes when he cracks them open again. His cap’s fallen off his head, and beyond the pain radiating off his leg and his gums, he sees silver hair and the lenses of a gasmask. He breathes.

“You blacked out.” Adust says. Worry on his tongue. “Not for long. Couple of seconds.”

“No shit.” MacCready replies through clenched teeth. Tries to ignore the wave of guilt he gets when the curse slips out. “My leg —”

“Not done just yet. Your kneecap needs to be reset too. It’s — “

“I’m in  _pain_ , not  _blind_.” MacCready hisses, harsh. “Just  _set it_  so we can go, already.”

It takes more brainpower than he’d like to admit to get the scarf back into his hands, but he manages, and twists it up so he can stuff it in his mouth again. Adust makes a sound then. For once, instead of just another pause and silence, and MacCready vaguely thinks it may be  _frustration_. That’s a first.  _Congrats, you’re unlocking new emotions in the guy, and all you had to do is get your damn leg snapped_.

He hears the  _tink_  of a syringe again, and he keeps his eyes low and away from his leg as he twists up the scarf. He doesn’t need to see this, just need to get it over with, just needs —

“I’m sorry,” a murmured voice comes before him, and MacCready barely has time to look up before a hand comes shooting out to grab his arm, the one with the sleeve rolled up and the busted watch, and he sees a flash of purple before he feels the needle sinking into his skin, making him grit his teeth and his muscles clench, as he  _feels_  the liquid entering his system.

Med-X. It’s Med-X, he  _knows_  it’s Med-X, and if it weren’t for the fact that the chem is insanely potent, he knows he’d have punched Adust by now because — god, Duncan forgive him — what the  _fuck_. What the fuck!

He can already feel the warmth starting to make it’s way through his system. Med-x works  _fast_ , and while a small dose would already leave him lightheaded and mildly high, Adust’s just used an  _entire syringe_  on him. In the next twenty seconds he’s gonna be entering a headspace so dazed he’ll barely be able to count to tato for at least a half hour, and he’ll be about as useful as a limp noodle for a good hour after that. The good thing is the pain in his busted leg won’t hurt anymore, but the bad thing is that if a repeat of the surprise mutie attack happens  _again_ in here, Adust’s essentially left him for dead.

He’s  _pissed_.

“Look, I’m sorry. But you’ll feel better.” Adust says, sounding genuinely apologetic. Already prepping the actual stimpaks to get the leg right.

MacCready can feel his lips curling into a snarl, even as the Med-x starts kicking in and his vision  _swims_. “Sure. I’ll feel  _great_  when I get killed ‘cause you wouldn’t  _listen to me_.”

“That  _won’t happen_.” Adust replies, voice almost harsh, and MacCready feels his head lolling against the wall as he finds himself watching the guy reset his leg. And all MacCready feels is a little pressure. No pain. A stimpak gets sunk into the place closest to the break, and MacCready ignores the queasiness in his gut, feeling and  _watching_  the skin knit back together. “Now stay still.”

MacCready’s tongue sticks to his teeth. His neck itches. “Do I  _look_  like I can move right now, boss? That’s kind of the  _problem_.”

“You know what I  _mean_.” Oh, he sounds miffed now.

“Can’t say I do. You injected me with a whole lot of stupid.”

Adust whips around to look at him. The effect’s a little lost with the gasmask, but macready’d put down ten caps to say the guy’s probably glaring. “Stop trying to  _guilt_  me for trying to help you.”

“Oh, you’ll be guiltier when I’m  _dead_.”

There’s a sharp hiss of breath, behind the gasmask, but it’s followed by a familiar quiet, and MacCready just stares at his busted leg while Adust does his thing with newfound determination. Or frustration. The guy’s patient and usually unreadable behind that mask, but MacCready bets he’s gonna see all kinds of emotions travelling with this guy, eventually. Already in his head he can hear Deeks down in Goodneighbour telling him to make a bingo sheet. MacCready never got the fun of that game.

He  _does_  gather enough mind not to get mouthy while Adust’s fixing up his knee. His mind’s fuzzy and up in the clouds, and he feels both weighted and weight _less_  when he’s on Med-x. Nothing he can do but watch. At least Adust seems to know what he’s doing, though stimpaks are pretty much idiotproof anyway. So long as the broken pieces aren’t too far apart from each other, the stims seem to know how things are supposed to be mended and placed, even if the person doing it doesn’t know  _jack_  about medical help. There’s a reason why stims are so important out here in the wastes. All Adust needs to do is get everything close to where they have to be and let the stim do all the work.

By the time the second stim sinks into the soft part of his knee, MacCready’s mind is cloudy, his neck still  _itches_ , and he sort of just wants to stare at the ceiling for an hour or two until the effects wear off. His leg looks a  _lot_  better, everything where it belongs and skin healed over, but there’s still dried blood stains crusting on his skin and his pants leg is done for. Damn. Looks like he’ll be going back to Goodneighbour looking like an idiot.

 _If_ he makes it back to Goodneighbour. If he tries to walk back down through Boston in this state, he’s dead.

 _Goddamn Med-x_ , his mind growls, and he grimaces as he tries to move his recently healed leg.

“Does it feel okay?” Adust asks, and  _whoops_ , MacCready’s almost forgot he was there a second. See? He’d die if someone snuck up on him.

He snorts, and leans his heavy head back against the wall. “Sore, but it’ll be fine in a day. If nothing kills me.”

“Nothing’ll kill you.” Adust says, pointedly, before standing up and extending a hand. “Come on.”

MacCready stares. Deadpan. “You want me to go through Boston  _now_? If you want me dead, you could just use your  _gun_.”

A slow, frustrated sigh. “I just — I’m not done with the library. Not yet. There’s — there’s something locked behind the door, round the back. I need to get to it.”

“So what, you want me to help you scavenge the library? Like  _this_?”

“ _No_ , I want to bring you to a safer room where you can  _rest_  while  _I_  scavenge the library.”

MacCready frowns. Glares, even when his head feels like cotton. “You’re not goin’ alone, not if there’s still muties left.”

“I’m quieter than you are.” Adust points out, and MacCready averts his eyes. “It won’t take long. If I’m not back by the time you feel better, you can leave without me.”

 _If_  he leaves, he thinks bitterly, but. He gets the point Adust is trying to make, even if he doesn’t like it. Going solo out in the Wealth is never a good idea unless you’re either ridiculously experienced or ridiculously lucky. MacCready likes to think he’s a bit of both, but right now he’s got his hands full trying to keep his head straight, and Adust’s only just came out of the freezer like, two weeks ago, even  _if_  the guy’s got obvious pre-war military experience. Either way, they can’t make the trek down to Goodneighbour just yet. It’ll be awhile before the Med-x wears off.

Fine.

“ _Fine_ ,” he huffs, and grabs Adust’s hand. Maybe a little stronger than necessary, but his head is swimming and he doesn’t know how to judge pressure with his hands anymore just yet. At least Adust is sober. The guy gives MacCready’s rifle back to him — thank god — and slings one of MacCready’s arms over his shoulder. Good thing they’re pretty much the same height. Makes doing things like this a lot easier.

Adust keeps the arm with the Pip-Boy up the entire time they’re walking. Probably to make sure there aren’t anymore hostiles in the area. It’s not like he and MacCready are making themselves particularly quiet now anyway, Adust’s feet nudging aside bodies in the way and robot parts, himself trying to navigate the rubble and ultimately failing, hard enough as it is to just keep his head up. If there are anymore hostiles in the area, they’ll notice, and they’ll show up on the Pip-Boy right away.

They make it safely, though. There’s a small opening in a wall, leads into what looks like a storeroom. The only hostile they find is a radroach that Adust stomps on and then kicks away with his boot. MacCready’s head is swimming. The room is dark, dusty and smells like a bit like mould, but it’s tucked away. Will hide MacCready well enough, if worst comes to worse and hostiles get into the library.

MacCready grunts as he’s set down, behind the still standing wall and tucked by the rusted shelf, trying his best to not be a limp noodle and ultimately failing, head lolling back onto the wall when Adust’s arm slips from his shoulders. His leg’s still feeling fine because of the Med-x, but he’s gonna put all his caps on the fact that it’s gonna be sore as  _heck_  once the chem wears off. For now, he just feels woozy. Heavy and light at the same time. His neck feels hot and itchy. God, he may even get  _giggly_  later. He hopes Adust won't be around for that.

He barely notices Adust moving again until he feels something cold nudging into his palm. He frowns.  _What?_  Forces himself to lift his head off the wall and look down. There’s an open can of purified water in his hands, and what looks like a sandwich, wrapped carefully in an older issue of Publick Occurences. He blinks sluggishly. When did he get those?

“Get some water and food down. Will help with the Med-x.” Adust says, voice going back to slow and steady, kneeling in front of him, “I won’t take too long.”

“If you are, ’m leaving without you.” MacCready replies, and weakly mentally congratulates himself on not slurring. He’s doing better than expected.

“I’ll be back, I promise.” And how long has it been since anyone’s promised MacCready anything that worked out?

(  _“I promise, we’re goin’ to build a better future for Duncan in the ‘Wealth,” Lucy had said, all green eyes and crooked smile as she stroked her belly bump. Seven months along. She threads her scarred fingers with his. “We’re goin’ to do this right.”_  )

He squeezes his eyes shut, lets his head fall back against the wall. Pretends that the Med-X is why his chest hurts.

“Yeah, yeah.” Is all he says, and only sees a fleeting glance at silver hair and milky lenses before he’s left alone in silence.

If anything, at least all those nights waiting for clients down in the Third Rail have trained him how to wile the hours away without feeling like he’s about to go out of his frickin’  _mind_  with boredom. He doesn’t have an accurate timekeeper like Adust does — his watch hasn’t worked in a year, and he’s never bothered forking over the caps needed to get the batteries needed to get them working again since most of the Commonwealth doesn't care about accurate timekeeping either — but he knows his body’s reaction to Med-x. So he times with that.

His mind’s fog gets a little clearer by the forty-five minute mark, or somewhere around there. His limbs start coming back to themselves awhile after that. Eating and drinking is a slow process, but  _God_ , the chilled purified water is so  _good_  to his system, and the sandwich — pulled brahmin, he figures after a few bites, with baked tato slices and razorgrain bread — is cold but puts a pleasant weight in his belly that makes his head feel steadier.

His finer motor skills come back awhile after that. Slowly, but surely. He makes sure by threading a cap between his fingers, flipping them, practicing his dexterity. He drops the cap more times than he’d like to admit, but hey, it’s not like his mind’s the clearest thing right now. Half of him wants to sleep it off, almost, but as well hidden as he is, he’s not stupid enough to give into that and risk getting killed in his sleep. So maybe he’s not the most alert right now, still dazed, but he’ll take a half chance of noticing something being up than no chance at all.

If he’s right, there shouldn’t be any issues. He doesn’t hear any gunshots in the echoing quiet of the library, and even if those muties come back, they don’t know how to be stealthy if their lives counted on it. MacCready’d know if something was up. He hopes he does. He  _has_  to. The wasteland is merciless, and keeping your guard down to your surroundings, drugged or not, is a surefire way to die in an ugly way.

At some point he wonders if he’ll be here for too long. Almost — well, he won’t say  _worried_  (except he is, just a little) —  _uncomfortable_  with the idea that Adust is going through the library alone. In a firefight, in the middle of settlements or having people to interact with, the guy has his head on straight, no doubt about that. But the quiet, especially in or around pre-war buildings like this — MacCready can see the shaky hands already, the trembling breathing. Staring into space, time passing without the guy realizing.

 _He’s already had two hundred years of that_ , MacCready thinks, and he knocks back the last of his water as he tries to move his recently-healed leg. Injuries like this, they’ll be sore for a good day or two. He’s not looking forward to it.

He already feels it, as the Med-x fades. MacCready doesn’t know how long it’s been — his watch hasn’t magically come back to life or anything, but he guesses it to be an hour or so. Maybe two, or three, just based off of how he’s feeling. The place is dimmer and whatever light he sees is mellow, probably almost sunset. His head is still feeling a little heavy, but his thoughts are definitely clearer, his fine motor skills are, for the most part, back. And his leg’s sore like the entire thing’s a damn bruise, but he’ll be able to walk, will be able to run if he has to. The most important thing.

Which is why, against orders, he props himself up using the wall, slips his cap back on and hobbles out of the literal hole in the wall.  _Adust isn’t back_. Did the guy really slip out without him? The library’s still echoing quiet as he slowly moves around, trying to be sneaky. It takes a whole lot more effort, but it… works. Nothing’s come out to shoot or gut him  _yet_ , so he’s gotta be doing something right. But maybe it’s because there’s just nothing, no one left in the library, which is a  _bad_  thing because he’s looking for someone. It makes him scowl, frustrated, as he ducks into each crumbling, dusty room and finds no one. Did Adust really leave him here? Too guilty to let him die, so the guy heals him, gives him his gun and food and water, makes false promises and then  _leaves_? A  _good luck to you buddy, I wish you the best, you’re on your own now_?

God, he hopes Adust hasn’t just screwed himself over by exploring. The most anti-climatic thing right now would be for the guy to survive multiple wars, two hundred centuries, and a whole bunch of raiders, ghouls and supermutants only to die because he doesn’t see rubble or something and falls, cracking his head open like an egg.

It’s not a nice thought. But MacCready’s seen people die for less.

 _Goddamn it_ , his head bites as he scowls and ducks out, being careful to distribute his weight properly while he stands. The room still spins a bit when he moves, but things are a whole lot steadier than they were earlier, and most importantly, he can probably shoot and run now. It won’t be  _fun_ , that’s for sure, but hey, survival and all that.

“Guess I'm leaving without you after all.” MacCready grumbles to himself, brows furrowed as he finishes an entire circle around the library, ignores the ache in his leg.

Nothing. Each room filled with empty, air choked with dust and the weird sweet smell that old books seem to have, but no sign of Adust. The guy moves like a frickin’  _whisper_ , and as well and good as that usually is, it means MacCready has no trail to go by. His chest is a mix of anger, frustration and unwanted _concern_ by the time he’s walking back to the doorway they’d come in from, and he’s got one hand on his rifle and the other on the wall, leaning as he avoids trying to put a whole lot of weight on his recently-healed leg. Steps over mutie corpses and robot parts they’d killed together, earlier today.

The guy’s either left him or gotten himself killed, somehow. MacCready doesn't see a corpse, so he's guessing it's the first.  _Assh— jerkwad._

He’s halfway through the room leading to the doorway, determined to whine about  _all of this_  to Daisy when he gets back to Goodneighbour, when he hears a voice that makes MacCready freeze.

Reflex gets him hiding behind a wall and prepping his rifle without having to think about it. The voice is gone, but it was  _there_ , sounding frustrated, almost — he doesn't have the luxury of being able to have hostiles showing up to him on a tiny screen, but he’s survived all this while on just being good at what he does, so. He peers back into the room, where he and Adust were earlier, hiding behind sandbags to pick off the muties. He doesn’t  _see_  anyone, right now, but the sandbags are good for hiding behind.

He crawls forward, careful. He can already guess who it is, but it's better to be wary,  _always_. Keeps his eyes alert, his muscles tense and leg aching like crazy as he keeps an eye out for the glint of a gun, or more noise. Nothing huge, so far, but the closer he gets he swears he can hear the sound of — tapping, something tapping, and he edges all the way along until he can see past the sandbags —

He sees silver hair, a gasmask, and fingers tapping until the terminal makes it’s lockout noise.

“Fuc — frickin’  _cripes_ , man.” MacCready sighs, harsh, straightening up and lowering his rifle.

Adust jolts, hand flying to his 10mm, but he catches sight of MacCready first before he draws it, relaxing his hand once he does. MacCready pulls on his most grumpy, unimpressed face he can. It’s working, probably, because he really  _is_  grumpy and unimpressed, because —  _God_ , he’s been searching this whole dusty library for this guy, and he’s just been here, tapping at terminals. MacCready  _scowls_.

“You’re up — ah, you’re feeling better then?” Adust asks, fingers awkward tap-tap-tapping on the surface of the table.

“Yeah, like an hour ago.” An exaggeration, maybe, but MacCready doesn’t care about specifics. “I thought you  _left_.”

“What? No. I promised I wouldn’t, I just — I got a little, distracted — “ Adust fumbles, almost sounding sheepish, and then looks down at his Pip-Boy for the time. “... Okay, yeah, okay. I got a, uh — a lottle, distracted.”

MacCready  _snorts,_ crossing his arms, but walking over. He’s still annoyed, but he’s oddly — relieved, yeah, that Adust hasn’t left. “Yeah, leave the drugged guy in a hole in the wall staring at the ceiling for hours. Real nice of you, boss.”

“I’m  _sorry_. I just, I got distracted, and then I — this terminal, I think I’m close to cracking it.” Adust tries. Turns back to the terminal, like he’s trying to prove a point.

Adust gets a few tries in before the terminal makes the reject sound again. "Uh huh. And I'm McDonough's left tit." MacCready raises a largely  _more_  unimpressed brow. “You tried 123456?”

“What? No, that’s — “

MacCready  _stares_.

Adust stares back.

He taps in the code, wordlessly.

The terminal chimes.

“… I spent forty minutes in here.”

“Yeah. And now we get to wander back to Goodneighbour in the dark. Thanks, Adust, you’re the  _best_.” MacCready quips, sarcasm on his tongue. “I better get paid extra for this.”

Adust only shakes his head. “For a library, these passwords are terrible.”

“Yeah, but you spent forty minutes in here, so they still work.” MacCready points out. The last of his anger dissipates when he hears a small, brief laugh from Adust.  _Yeah_ , he thinks,  _the guy’s a lot better when he’s like this._

He doesn’t bother reading the terminal himself. Just leans back against the sandbags while Adust bends down and reads, green tint on his gasmask. He knows he was exaggerating a bit earlier — looking at Adust’s Pip-Boy now, he’s pretty sure it’ll be sunset by the time they leave. They can probably make it back to Goodneighbour before nightfall. Still, he doesn’t wanna risk getting “distracted” and wasting more time. So he just waits for Adust to finish, what —  _satisfying_  his curiosity or something. God, it’s lucky he appreciates Daisy so much.

He looks over when he sees Adust suddenly stand, looking like he’s peering over the back of the terminal for something. He must find what he’s looking for, because he goes  _a-ha_  and pulls out — a key?

MacCready’s wide-eyed when the key gets thrown to  _him_. “Uh. What?”

Adust jerks a thumb to the door beside him. “It opens up that. The, uh — the terminal, it says there’s supplies inside. Supplies we can take, if we help them out.”

“Help with what? Who’s them?” MacCready asks, disbelief in his mouth, as Adust walks over to another set of doors nearby. What’s there to find in there?

“Preserving knowledge, or something. And them, is, uh — “ Adust says, fumbling, before pointing to one of the corpses MacCready’d looted earlier. “Them. Just — give me ten minutes, I have the password, I’ll be quick.”

“That’s what you said before.” MacCready points out, but Adust’s already gone, disappearing behind the doors. MacCready snorts.

Well, better that the guy’s curious than having a breakdown. MacCready turns back to the door. What kind of supplies would they even  _have_  in a library? He’s skeptical, but hey, he’s not complaining even if it’s just Cram or something. Every cap counts, now more than ever, now that he knows Duncan might just get well again if he just — if he just has the caps to keep paying for the care. He  _can_ , and he will, and  —

MacCready feels his eyes widening, when the door unlocks. And he grins.

The room’s full of food, and ammo, there’s a trunk in here he’s sure is full of stuff to sell, and — that there’s a  _stealth boy_ , he can make a fat load of caps from that, there’s a bottlecap mine even, and  _oh, yeah, I love libraries_.

Doesn’t even hesitate to make room in his pack to shove things in. The stealth boy takes up the most room, chunky as it is, but it’s a solid 100 caps if he can sell it off. There’s some stims, some water — he doesn’t bother taking the boxes of food, they take up too much room and are too full of rads to be worth much — and maybe, okay, yeah, he’s not as  _fast_  as Adust Quickfingers is with picking locks, but he’s got some experience anyway, and this one doesn’t seem too hard.

He’s halfway to succeeding when he hears Adust come round the corner and walk into the room, and he looks over his shoulder with a grin.

“Found this holotape in the terminal, don't know what it is though.” Adust remarks, head tilted left as he spins a holotape in one hand, stuffing it in his pocket after. "We struck alright?"

“ _Oh_  yeah.” MacCready smirks, going back to the picking. “Stealth boy, bottlecap mine, some stims, water — there’s food up on the shelves but I don’t think we have enough room.”

( Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the guy stare at the shelves, before a hand reaches out to grab a box of Fancy Lads, stuffing it in his pack. Sweet tooth, probably. )

The lock finally comes undone, right as his bobby pin snaps. MacCready tosses aside the broken thing, and hurries to shove the lid up and open. And  _sweet success_ , as expected, the thing is  _full_  of sh — stuff they can pawn off or use. Armour, some smaller guns — he wonders if libraries actually kept stuff like this back in the day, or just lame books.

In the end, most of the weapons get shoved in their packs, and MacCready finds himself armoured to the teeth. It’s not  _comfortable_ , not really, there’s a reason why he prefers to just wear his plated inner shirt instead of piling on chest pieces, but in this case it’s a worthy sacrifice.  _Plus_ , it’ll probably keep him a whole lot warmer, now that evening’s coming and the weather’s looking nippy. Now if only he could get his leg to stop aching, that’d be gravy.

“How am I lookin’, boss? Half as dangerous as you?” MacCready smirks, adjusting the leg piece around his recently healed leg. It helps conceal the fact his pants are cut up.

A short chuckle. “Twice as.” Adust says, and there’s definitely a smile somewhere in that voice.

“Then we gotta show off to Daisy. Unless there’s  _another_  terminal you want to suck at?”

A pause.

MacCready stares, deadpan. “You’re kidding.”

“What, no, I — “ Adust stumbles over his words, before turning around. “No, I promise, no more struggling with terminals. I just — the book return terminal. It’ll be quick.”

“Everytime you say that I feel less like believing you.” MacCready snorts, but follows after anyway.

He watches as Adust slings his rifle and pack, and then pick up a stack of books off of one of the library desks and  _when did that get there_  and jog to the book return terminal, gingerly stepping over bodies. He follows after himself, watching the shadows on the wall. He doesn’t rush, and by the time he gets to Adust at the shiny pink book return terminal thing, the guy’s already sliding the books in. One by one, disappearing down the slot, and then all gone, and then out come the little tokens.

And then the tokens get slipped back in, and then it’s a good half a minute before more buttons are pressed. There’s a whirring sound. And then a like  _thump_ , and MacCready quirks a brow as Adust takes whatever just popped out.

It’s. Gum drops.

"Are you serious.”

Adust’s face is unreadable as he looks at MacCready, but that’s, those are definitely gum drops in the guy’s hand. Adust holds out the black and white box, and it’s almost funny to MacCready that people back then could write stuff like  _radioactive gum drops_  and not know that two hundred years later, that’s exactly what they are. He shakes his head. Sugar and his teeth? They don’t get along.

Adust reaches back to unclasp his mask one-handed, and the lower half comes loose, enough for MacCready to make out grey stubble, and he watches as the guy shakes two or three gum drops into his palm and pops them into his mouth, before clasping the gasmask on again. “We should go now.”

Useless junk. The gum drops are useless junk, and  _radioactive_  no less, but — yeah, okay, fine, the guy should be allowed some gum drops, even if getting them  _were_  a waste of time.

When they finally crack back open the door outside, the fresh air is chilly, and suddenly MacCready’s  _really_  grateful for the extra layers the armour provides because he’s already shivering. Goodneighbour isn’t too far off, though, so they should be okay. The sunset’s starting to give way to nightfall, the sun starting to disappear over the skyline, which means they have to start moving. And they do, MacCready trying to keep the weight off of his other leg, and Adust by his side, guidance marked only by the sound of hardened gum drops clack-clacking against his teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

“Well don’t you two look like cats who got the canary.” Daisy says, low and easy, and MacCready wonders what a canary is as they walk up to the counter.

“Returned your book for you, Daisy.” Adust says. “The mutants should be gone. For now.”

“Thank you, sugar. I know how hard that must’ve been.” Daisy replies, and the look on her face is almost soft, now. MacCready’s only ever seen that gentleness three times before — the first when MacCready’d found her old wedding ring for her, the second when she found out about Duncan, and the third time yesterday, when she’d met Adust. “And you too, MacCready. Look at that gear.”

MacCready grins. “Eyeballin’ me, huh, Daisy?” He pretends to flex, and Daisy laughs, low and raspy. “Like what you see?”

“Maybe if I’m still alive in a million years, MacCready.” She huffs, goodnaturedly.

“Hold you to that, Daize.” He tips his cap, and she only snorts, amused. Even Adust gives a tiny breath of a laugh. MacCready feels a little bit proud.

“Alright, alright. I can see your packs are fit to burstin’, so we should probably leave the conversations for another day.” Daisy finally says, satisfied smile on her face. Dusts her hands, like she always does when she’s ready for business. “Let’s see what you boys got for me. I’ll be generous, but don’t test your luck.”

In the end, everything they earn amount to about a hundred 'n fifty caps each, not including some supplies they’ve traded for, and ammo bought at Kleo’s. It’s enough to bring a smile to MacCready’s lips, enough that he can almost ignore the ache in his leg, if he tries hard enough. They both spend a little to buy radstag wraps for dinner from one of the less shady looking stalls around the drifter corners, and Adust forks over the caps for the hotel Rexford.

His stomach’s pleasantly warm and full, filled with savoury radstag wrap and Nuka Cola, as he sits on his mattress on the floor, leaning against the wall. If he can get more odd jobs like the one with Daisy and earn just as much, maybe this month he’ll be able to earn  _five hundred_  caps to send home to Duncan. Maybe he’ll even be able to afford eating like this on the regular again. It’s a good thought. He likes it.

Mostly, he’s glad Daisy’s kept his small stash of spare clothes. He’s got a nice pair of spares on for now, just a size too loose, while he fixes up his old ones. It’ll be a pain to get the bloodstains out by the time he finds somewhere to wash it, but he’s done better with worse. At least Adust’s cut is in a straight line. Makes it easier to sew up and patch and fix. It's been an hour or two since they got into the Rexford. He can appreciate the rest his leg's getting.

Adust himself’s been sitting on the bed, thumbing through a book. Probably taken from the library or something. MacCready’s can’t make out the title from where he’s sitting, and he can’t make out the guy’s face either. Adust has long hair, longer than most people out in the wastes usually have — whenever he lets it out of it’s bun, it falls almost past his shoulderblades. Now, head ducked down and looking at the book, the hair’s like a curtain, keeping MacCready from seeing anything. Though the way those fingers tremble around the book, and the way MacCready hasn’t heard a single page flip since he started working on sewing his pants, he’s got a pretty good guess.

But it’s not like he knows what to do to comfort him. MacCready’s not — he isn’t the kind of guy you go to for comfort. Not really. He doesn’t know where to start with people unless they make it super clear, and he’s only known this guy for, what, a week? And the man should be allowed to grieve — if MacCready’s reading this right, the man’s lost his entire world  _and_  his family just two weeks ago — but he isn’t sure whether the guy’s grieving or about to lose himself, half the time. So MacCready just — doesn’t do much of anything. Talks, if that helps, but it’s not like this guy’s past is any of his business.

The thinking distracts him, though, and he ends up pricking his finger with his needle. “Fu _uuuhhhh —_ damn —” he hisses, and sticks his finger tip in his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adust peer up at the noise, and beyond the curtain of silver-grey hair, he sees dark eyes, red and damp around the edges.  _Definitely not okay_. And even though he shouldn’t care (and he normally doesn’t, anyway, for those short term or one-time-only clients) he’s  _still_  going to be travelling with this guy for at least another week or two into the forseeable future, and right now they’re both awake, and the man’s  _quietly crying_  next to him, having lost his  _entire damn world_. So yeah, MacCready feels just a little bit obliged to do  _something_.

“Daisy nearly knocked my teeth out, first time I met her.” He tries. Clears his throat, tries to shove the awkwardness out as he goes back to sewing. “Butt of her gun, straight to my face.”

He’s not looking, but he hears shifting. And then, a wet sounding “Sounds like her.”

MacCready snorts. Gets back to the rhythm of sewing. “Yeah, you think it’s funny cause  _you_  didn’t get to go through it. Kind of my fault I guess, coming up from behind her after she’d just taken out three raiders on her own. Thought I was one of them, probably. I tapped her on the shoulder and her pistol just —  _wham_ , right in my face. As if my teeth aren’t bad enough as is.”

He hears a small, airy chuckle. Glances up to see Adust looking at him, brow quirked. His head tilts left, as he weakly half-smiles.

“I saw her punch a lady’s lights out. Once.” Adust says. Slow, damp, but there, eyes turning to look at the ceiling. “Pre — uh, pre-war. The woman was trying to pick a fight, and — well, you know. Daisy doesn’t hold back.”

MacCready snickers. “Man, I’d  _pay_  solid caps to see that. Pre-war bombshell Daisy, throwing punches.”

“In  _heels_ , and perfect makeup.” Adust snorts.

“She was wearing a  _suit_  when he slammed her gun in my face, so yeah, I’d believe it.” MacCready replies. Flickers his eyes up, offers a grin. “Should see her when she’s fighting Bobbi No-Nose. No one messes with Daisy.”

“Over two hundred and fifty years, and no one messes with Daisy.” Adust agrees, humming.

The conversation falls after that, but it’s not nearly so tense. Not nearly so awkward. MacCready knows better than to expect the guy to be magically okay after that, but, you know. Least he offered  _something_.

It’s all he can think to offer, for now. And for now, it’s got to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh i'm sorry this took so long to update?? uni's starting up again, brand new semester, i'm afraid updates will be pretty slow. on a more..... positive(?) note these chapters get longer each update, so. i had to stop this one early instead of making it the usual 5 parts bc it's so big lmfskjhfd
> 
> next chapter will feature the boys becoming friends. this fic will burn so slow.
> 
> anyway since it's about time i did this: need some solid slow burning nick/deacon??? well you're in luck, [Cloaks, Daggers and Cigarette Smoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5306738/chapters/12252113) is good biz and still updating. give a kudos and a comment, folks. every time you do, you become Just That Much cooler.
> 
> EDIT: 21/6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	5. wading through the days in, nights out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a slow, month-long friendship montage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hinted, background Preston/Sturges.

It’s a couple more days in Goodneighbour before they finally leave, not that they’re in any particular hurry. And besides, it’s... It’s  _good_ , to be around Daisy.  _Amazing_ , even. To be around a familiar face, especially when that familiar face has been around the wasteland for longer than he has and knows the ins and outs, to finally see someone he _knows_ from his old life and who knows him back — it’s comforting, it’s — it’s just so  _relieving,_  to know that he has someone here that he’s already familiar with. To know that not  _everyone_  he’s ever known has died with the world, the one that left him behind.

Now, more than ever, Daisy is a blessing.

So it’s a couple of days. Clothing is sewn up, scrap is sold. Adust feels mildly guilty, Daisy closing up shop for basically their entire stay there, probably losing business, but a part of him is selfishly glad that she’s still happy to see him, even after all this time, even after he shows up after all these years, alone. (He knows that she’s always been closer to Jennifer. He wonders if it hurts her as much to see him alone like this as much as it hurts him. He wonders if she hates him, even a little, to be the one to survive instead of the better one out of the three of them.)

And the fact that she seems to know MacCready too is just an added bonus. Adust doesn’t know what kind of history they share — besides their first meeting involving her almost breaking MacCready’s nose — and he’s not going to wedge in and ask now, but they’re close. Close enough that the tenseness in MacCready’s shoulders loosen up when he’s joking around her. Close enough that Daisy’s worn body relaxes,  _laughs_ , in the way that Adust still remembers like yesterday (and it’s been centuries), still the same, still so  _Daisy_ , and somehow it just provides that small enough bit of comfort, to know that even through all the centuries, through all that she’s been through, she’s still here, and still laughing. How bad could things be, if she's still here and making the best of it?

And it’s easier like that. For those couple of days, things are just... Easier. Not necessarily better. Grief still clouds his system, drains the voice from his throat especially when Daisy smiles and Adust can see the way she looked, just weeks ago for him and centuries for her, and more often than not, he still gets choked up, still can’t stop the burning in his eyes whenever he thinks of the fact Jennifer isn’t here with him.  _She’d be so glad to see you again_ , Adust thinks, more than once,  _as we would be to her_. It’s hard to keep his mind from straying around Daisy, not when she’s a reminder of everything he’s lost.

But it helps, in a way. Doesn't hurt quite so much. Both nights that MacCready heads back to the Rexford early, and Adust stays behind, he ends up crying in her arms. Both of them, mourning those who left them behind, mourning the loved ones they’ve lost, mourning their missing link,  _Jennifer_ , and trying to cope in the world they’ve been given, but mourning and coping _together_. Makes all the difference, to know each other and to be there. He doesn’t know how to thank her for any of it. He only knows that it feels better, to be able to let the grief flow through and share the burden with someone who  _knows_. He can only hope, in the end, that it helped Daisy the same way.

By the time they leave on the third day, the grief’s no lighter, but it’s just that much easier of a weight to bear. Cleared up a little of the static burning behind his eyes, washed his throat from the pain, letting him talk a little more than he did when he first came in. And Daisy had waved them goodbye, told them not to get shot or killed before they could come back, and both he and MacCready had smiled and waved back and told her they wouldn’t.

And then it’s a day and a half’s walk to Sanctuary.

Would’ve been faster, he guesses, if it weren’t for the radstorms rolling in over the horizon, or the insects they keep running into — and listen, of all the things Adust has come to dread in the new world he’s woken up in, of  _everything_  he’s run into so far, from chem-addled raiders to hulking supermutants to  _gigantic irradiated lizards_ , of everything, the insects are the  _worst_. They’re disgusting, they come in swarms, and they’re hard to shoot. Each encounter makes him physically  _gag,_ and at one point after they’d fought a dozen bloodbugs for shelter in Taafington Boathouse and Adust had been hunched over the edge of the water, gagging bile from all the blood shot back in his face, MacCready had been right behind him, thumping his back and  _snickering_.

“Guess you could say you didn’t have a...  _bloody_  good time?” MacCready had said, all grins and self-delighted laughter. “... No?”

It, admittedly, took a little bit of debating of whether to shoot MacCready in the foot with Adust’s pipe pistol before he’d settled to just smacking his side, which Mac laughed at anyway.

( And it’s a good thing. Another good development, from sharing the days in Goodneighbour with Daisy, ever since Boston Public Library.

 

Talking comes easier, now. Constant conversations. Trust — and with Daisy to help them through. Not quite so awkward now. Not quite so forced. And Adust is — he's more grateful than he's realized, to have someone just by his side, keeping him company in this brave new world, watching his back.

Even if it means dealing with awful, awful puns. )

By the time they reach Sanctuary the next day, the sun is beginning it’s descent down the horizon, painting the settlement in soft golds and oranges. Adust finds himself pausing, right before the bridge, MacCready moving to check out the statue that watches over it, keeping loyal guard as it has been for centuries, unmoving and steadfast. Beyond the bridge, Adust can hear sounds of people — the very faint  _whrr_  of the generators pumping, the sound of hammering. A bark, somewhere farther. And yet.

It’s a jarring, hollow experience, realizing that what once was home... Isn’t, not anymore.

“Man, I heard about this place over the radio, but I didn’t think it’d be this far out.” MacCready pipes up, bringing Adust back to reality. He pats the statue before stepping out again, testing the bridge. “Doesn’t look too bad.”

Adust manages a shrug at that, stepping out onto the bridge. “It was nicer when I lived here.”

A pause, then. A small stop in the footsteps beside him before they hurry to catch up again. “You lived here?”

Adust doesn’t get to answer, though. A call of his name turns both his and MacCready’s heads, and then he sees familiar warm eyes and a warmer smile. Preston looks a little strange without his usual cowboy hat on or his frock coat, but even in the simple sweat-stained singlet and slacks he’s wearing, he looks tired. But not nearly as bad, or as miserable, as it was when Adust left him. He's I've-been-working-on-fixing-walls-and-digging-crops-all-day kind of tired, instead of let-me-die kind of tired. It’s a relief in itself, and Adust relaxes minutely, walking the rest of the way over, MacCready keeping a comfortable two steps behind, wary.

“Welcome back, ‘dust.” Preston greets, clapping Adust over the shoulder. It’s a welcome thing. He turns, then, and smiles at MacCready too. “And welcome to Sanctuary, stranger.”

MacCready doesn’t bother with a reply, letting out a sort of huff, and Adust’s willing to bet he has his signature scowl on. Not that he can see. But it’s good to be wary, good to be on guard, and evidently, neither he nor Preston bother to fault him for it. Preston just smiles on, and Adust is grateful that the bags under the man’s eyes look a little lighter, at least. Means he’s getting  _some_  sleep.

“I’m glad you’re back alive and in one piece, at least. I hope you found what you were lookin’ for?” Preston asks.

Adust’s grip on his gun tightens, without realizing. He notices Preston noticing, though, and he forces himself to relax.

“Sort of.” He manages. Keeps his voice level. And then he can’t force more words out than that.

At least, though, Preston seems to understand. Seems to get about not wanting to talk about sore topics. Instead he just nods, taking a few steps away before jerking his head towards where the designated communal house is.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s good to have you back, and your friend here. Sturges and I moved some stuff around so things look better, and we got better mattresses to sleep on. Stay as long as you like. This was your home before it was ours.” Preston says, gentle. Understanding. “Now, c’mon. Jun’s cooking up a mean radstag stew, and we’re gonna be scrapin’ at the bottom of the pot if Sturges gets to it first.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

The more time he spends with MacCready, the more Adust starts to settle into the idea of... Trusting him. Slowly. Granted, he’s already done a lot of things that’s warranted Adust’s trust; not killing him and taking his caps the first time rescuing Valentine, trying to look out for him during the Boston public library, just... _being there_ , talking to him, offering his duster as a blanket when they switch sleeping shifts at night, exchanging ammo — Daisy, especially, was something that made something in Adust loosen up. Daisy had always been a good judge of character, and if she trusted him, then it spoke volumes. MacCready's job was only ever to be an extra gun, was never meant to be anything more and didn't  _need_ to be anything more, but MacCready's companionship is a pleasant surprise all the same. Spoke of a hidden kindness that only some may see.

If there’s anything he’s learnt in his past couple of weeks in the wasteland, it’s that you can’t trust anybody, not really, not unless you wanted a bullet in the back by sundown. Which isn’t exactly comforting, not when he’s already juggling about a dozen different meltdowns internally and having to defend himself at the same time, but. Still. It's hard to be too wary when you're around the same person, day in and day out, from dusk to dawn and every second in between. Trust — he’s slowly starting to do it without thinking about it. Which should be sending off warning signs, but so far, he hasn’t gotten shot yet, so that’s something. And MacCready isn’t showing any signs of wanting to either, happy with the caps he’s earning, always ready to pop a sarcastic remark or a dumb joke. It’s — it’s  _nice_ , actually.

Also, turns out, MacCready  _loves_  dogs.

“Okay, ready Dogmeat? You ready? Go!”

Adust barely manages to not smack into a rusty lamppost as he walks by, eyes distracted by the stick that comes flying above his head, and the brown furry blur that sprints after it, barking in delight. And further away, he sees MacCready — dressed more casually, duster finally resting, in flannel and jeans that Marcy had found in one of the houses here (and Adust tries not to think about which neighbour it used to belong to, before) which were a size too big but otherwise fine. Cleans up... really nice, actually. (Better than nice. The relaxed look suits him, though Adust doesn't think about it just yet.) Adust’s own shirt is worn, the plain white slightly yellowed with age, the slacks itchy and loose, a remnant of a world long gone.

But it’ll do. It’s not like they’re planning to do a lot of running around and shooting. The plan is to stay in Sanctuary until Valentine calls for them and finds something — the detective knows he’s based in Sanctuary, and Adust is sure that they could radio from there to here — and, in the meantime, run a few more Minutemen errands if need be.

So far, so good. A nice break from all the shooting and running, slower in pace. Gives him time to breathe and... absorb things. And maybe being in the place where he’d been living before isn’t exactly the best idea for his grief, but there’s a lot of things to do around Sanctuary, Sturges optimistic and already prepping great plans for rebuilding the settlement. Things to build, crops to plant. Preston busy on the Minutemen front and trying to get the word out to traders. There’s plenty of things to do, and mindless menial labour is just what he needs to keep his mind buzzing low and slow, with just enough distraction around him to keep him alright, at least until he’s back alone in his room, late at night and gasping from nightmares. It's a decent compromise. He can't run from the grief forever — but he can do it somewhere safe. 

It’s been going okay, too. Already, Marcy’s started to plant the crops, securing a whole stretch of earth behind the communal workhouse for her to start planting melons, razorgrain along the side, and Adust and Sturges had both helped to dismantle the old rusty playground ( _Shaun would’ve played there, Adust and Jennifer had both wanted to bring him to it once he was old enough to run—_ ) to make room for what, they hoped, would be a good mutfruit field. There are better places to sleep, things have been cleaned up, and things are looking better.

( Not to mention, things are looking better for the _people_ too. Jun Long seems to be coping, trying to be involved. Keeping busy, and Adust can relate to that. Marcy starting to talk more, albeit not to him, but at least to Mama Murphy, the older woman telling Marcy stories while the latter planted crops. It’s good to see. Even Preston, still looking exhausted, but at least... looking _better_. Moving around, now, like he has a purpose. Keeping his head busy with rebuilding the Minutemen, a new dream to hang his hat on. Sturges, steadfast and making sure all of these things run like clockwork, hands always busy.

And not even Adust is blind enough to ignore the way Preston smiles at Sturges. )

The Minuteman errands aren't too bad either, in a sense, too. Helping, clearing out raiders and insects, helping good people. Adust has never been the kind of person who's been good at saying no to other people, but in this case, he's not upset about it. It feels... good, to help out where he can. Build a sense of community again — brings him an odd flicker of hope, on the inside, that there are still people and families and friends in this new world. People still looking out for each other. (And Sanctuary, the Minutemen — they're as close to family as Adust can get, right now.) The caps that come with the completion of every successful mission is just gravy, and keeps MacCready happy, at least.

Though it isn’t as if MacCready isn’t enjoying his time in Sanctuary. The first few days he’d whined and snarked about being used for cheap labour, but then they’d fallen into routine. It’s no mercenary contract for sure, but unlike Goodneighbour, there’s at least shared food, clean water whenever they’d like, and less risky work for still being able to get caps. There's peace and quiet, and the bonus of being able to sleep without having to keep one eye open always. By the fourth day, Adust had woken up, strapped on his gasmask and headed out to see MacCready walking over the bridge with Sturges, a freshly caught and shot radstag doe carried by the both of them.

Also, there’s Dogmeat.

Adust finds a smile twitching on his face as he sees MacCready squat down, arms wide open, gleefully grinning as Dogmeat starts bounding back with the stick he’d thrown. And then he watches as the grin morphs into a mild look of fear as Dogmeat  _does not slow down_ , and then —

“ _Whuff!”_

Collision.

Adust laughs, just a little, quietly and to himself as he watches the furry blur rocket in and  _plow_ the man over, dropping the stick nicely on MacCready’s chest before proceeding to lick MacCready’s face until it shines. It’s kind of... endearing. Mostly, though, it’s just hilarious. He doesn’t bother to be sneaky as he walks over, peering over the both of them, Dogmeat affectionately attacking MacCready’s face and MacCready struggling to both laugh and move Dogmeat off, to little avail.

Adust decides to throw them a bone. “Dogmeat, come on.”

There’s a funny series of spitting noises as MacCready sits up again, wiping at his face as Dogmeat trots on over to Adust, sitting by his feet and looking altogether too proud of himself. Adust smiles, behind the gasmask, though it’s a little tired. (he didn’t get much sleep, last night. The old house has too many memories. He’ll think about moving beds to another of the empty houses tonight, so he won’t have to look at Shaun’s crib as soon as he wakes.) The way MacCready smiles up at him — it makes him feel warmer, somewhere inside.

“You’re good with dogs.” Adust says. Points out, more than anything, before squatting down to pat Dogmeat, scratching behind the ears.

MacCready snorts, still wiping at his face. “Sure, and look at what I get for it. Running me down like that. Ungrateful.”

Adust manages a small huff of a laugh at that. “Mow down the ones you love.”

“Tell that to every farmer who’s gotten ploughed by a brahmin.” MacCready notes, eyebrow quirked, before he finally pushes himself to stand. Gives a little whistle that Dogmeat cocks his ears to before trotting over, MacCready scratching under Dogmeat’s chin. “Used to have a couple of dogs, back where I was when I was a kid. They loved me.”

Adust raises a brow. Not that MacCready can see it, behind the gasmask. But he doesn’t get to say much before Sturges is calling out for him, probably to ask about moving some things — they’re starting to ask him about everything, about what to move from what house to where, as if they were asking  _permission_  just because he used to live here before, and he doesn’t know how to tell them how uncomfortable that idea is yet — and he finds himself losing the words he’s about to say, so he just stands back up, waves a little, and leaves.

Behind him, he watches MacCready launch the stick again, accidentally hitting Codsworth in the process with Dogmeat slamming into the Mr Handy soon after, and Adust lets himself relax, minutely, as he hears MacCready’s distant  _oh crap!_

MacCready, so far, has been fine. More than fine,  _good_ , even.

And worst case scenario, at least Dogmeat finds him entertaining.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they come out of Saugus’ Ironworks, it’s three in the morning, it’s raining, and they’re both burnt out in every meaning of the phrase.

He barely registers MacCready grunting, finding and carrying a stray metal bar and jamming it between the handles of the door, so on the off chance they missed a forged raider, they can’t be ambushed from that entrance. It’s good thinking, and Adust can barely mumble a thanks for it. They’re both running on extremely low energy, and he  _knows_  it.

He supposes it’s not the worst Minuteman mission he’s been sent on, but it’s been extremely tiring, and nerve-wracking. He and MacCready’d left Finch Farm at eight in the morning the previous day, and now it’s three in the morning the day  _after_. They’ve barely eaten, barely rested, and they’re both almost dead on their feet. There’s no way in hell they can make the trip all the way back to Finch Farm, not in this condition. They both don’t even have to say anything before looking at each other and agreeing to settle down for the night. At least there’s a mattress out here to use.

“I’ll take first watch.” Adust says, starting to unclasp his gasmask.

MacCready frowns at him from by the mattress, but it’s not a convincing one, and he ends up not bothering with an argument, just shrugging, taking off his duster. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Not that it’s without reason. MacCready’s the one who took most of the heat, and pretty literally.

Even now, he watches as MacCready shrugs off his duster and takes off his cap, moving to settle into the unoccupied mattress. Adust watches him, not to be creepy, but mostly just to make sure that there aren’t any burns he’d missed. They’d both been hit by the flames, and both of them have tender parts of their skin from being flambéed a little, but the stimpaks they’d found around the factory had been godsent. Hopefully, they should both be fine come morning.

Nevertheless, he’s had the benefit of facial protection, and from generally avoiding frontal combat. He’s always been a sniper, through and through — shooting from a distance and before ever even having to encounter the enemy. He’s good at what he does, and he knows it — but he’s the first to admit that closer combat shooting is a weakness he has, and one that’s nearly killed him multiple times before. And that’s where MacCready had come up, guarding his back, and ended up taking the brunt of the burns.

Adust takes off his gasmask to gulp in cooler, less stuffy air, shrugging off his leather jacket to leave him in his thinner undershirt. In an hour or so they’ll both be feeling more chill than heat, but for now, they let the wind come in as it wants. The lack of a door means that the rain and wind are coming in a little, but it’s largely a relief more than a hindrance — the light sprays of rain blown in by the cold wind is relieving, pleasant on overheated skin.

A small hiss comes from the mattress, and Adust immediately looks over, sees MacCready’s face wincing, and he doesn’t hesitate to come by his side, taking another stimpak with him.

“We miss a burn?” Adust asks, quiet.

MacCready manages to shake his head. “Nah, just — still tender. Hey, when we head back, remind me to ask Preston to  _shove it_ if he keeps asking us to take out whole factories of raiders on our own.”

“Well, it’s not his fault. And he didn’t know the details of this one.” Adust asks, head tilting slightly. Manages a small smile, even though his eyes are already heavy. “And regular people don’t walk right in front of a flamer.”

A snort. “It’s my job to watch your back, you dumba — you  _dunce_. It’s about time you let me do what you  _paid_  me to do.”

... Fair enough. MacCready’s given him no reason not to do that, so far, and he’s being paid to do it, so reasonably, Adust  _should_. And if Adust were being honest, the times they’d fallen into a rhythm mid-combat, Adust shooting the long range and MacCready taking up the ones that’d slipped through, things were — easier.

(A part of his mind wants to slap himself. MacCready's  _snapped his leg_ from a supermutant attack to help protect them, got shot in the leg, now putting himself in front of a flamer. There really isn't any reason for Adust to not trust him, now, except for his own paranoia, even after everything. And it's really good to have a partner again. It's been so, so long, since he's had a spotter.)

MacCready shoots him a look, here, pointed and direct. “If you and I are gonna be doing this for awhile, we’re gonna have to have a basic level of trust. You don’t shoot me in the back, and I won’t shoot you. And I know I’m a bit of an ass, but so far, we’re doing fine, and we do  _better_  when we split the workload  _and_  the loot. So  _let me do my job_ , and let me watch your back.”

And after that, there’s no real reason to not nod back. MacCready nods, before settling, a little uncomfortably, onto the mattress to sleep. Adust gives him space, walking closer to the door, half to make sure there’s really no one left outside (and there’d been supermutants nearby, another thing he had to watch out for) and mostly, to feel a bit of the spray of rain and wind on overheated skin, cooling and refreshing, new air settling in his lungs.

Trust. Now there’s something.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _... Double checked his list and everything! And that’s why they call it, ‘being Thoreau’_.”

By the time the raiders are sniped down, Adust is too busy checking through the contents of their pockets before he hears MacCready’s voice behind him, quiet, and sounding almost... Sulky.

“I came up with that first. You heard me, right? By the shack? Thoreau-ghly?”

Adust can’t help the half-smile that breaks under his gasmask, though he doesn’t turn to look. “Yeah, I know.”

“Me. I came up with that first.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He finds a few inhalers of jet and a stimpak, shoving it into his pack (and when did he become so adapted to looting off of dead bodies? It’s something he... Shouldn’t be thinking about.) Before turning to look at MacCready, still nudging one of the bodies with his foot. At least he’d stopped complaining about the smell. Adust steps back down to meet him.

“I didn’t even know you  _read_  Thoreau.” Adust says, softly.

MacCready’s cheeks redden. “We didn't have much variety in reading material back where I'm from.”

Adust can’t help the small laugh that surprises even himself, and it’s worth the sharp elbow he gets in the side for it, though MacCready’s grinning too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, hair sticking to the inside of his mouth, and when he blinks he still sees Jennifer’s face.

It takes him a little while to register where he is, his body scrambling to sit upright, pressing his back flat against the wall the mattress is set up against. Eyes wide open, staring at the half-gone wall in front of him, and he does his best to will his body back to normal, to stop shaking, reminding himself of where he is. Safe. Away from the vault. Still looking for Shaun. Still okay.

Reminds himself that Jennifer’s already gone, no matter  _what_  he does now, and then he spends the next thirty minutes crying.

Eventually, though, the tears slow, as they always do. A little faster, these days, with his mind and body occupied with duties and a wasteland that he’s surprised he’s getting used to (and really, people adapt quicker than they know) and repetition. It helps, of course, that he’s moved his sleeping places from his old home to the one next door. Sturges had kindly settled a lock and key for his old house, promised they wouldn’t do a thing to it until Adust gave the okay. And for now, as long as Adust convinces himself enough that his neighbours got out of the blast in time, he can sleep in the house without as many nightmares a night.

(  _They’d just gotten married_ , he remembers.  _Jennifer and I bought them that toaster as a wedding gift. And now we’re using it for scrap._  )

It takes him a little while for him to realize that the pip-boy is glaring at him, and his brows shoot up when he realizes the time. He’d slept in an extra hour. A glance to the side proves that MacCready isn’t by him, his bedroll empty and already cool.  _Probably gone for breakfast_ , Adust thinks, and he wipes his eyes with his forearm before he finally stands. Ties his ever-longer hair, thinks about changing clothes but finds he doesn’t have the energy to try. It's fine. One thing at a time.

He still clasps on the gasmask, though. It’s become a routine, these days, something he can’t go without. Feels safer, with a firm layer between him and the rest of the world.

It takes an alarmingly large amount of effort for him to get up and out the door, his body begging to go back to sleep, to where he hopefully won’t have to  _think_ , but he’d promised Marcy that he’d help move one of the mutfruit plants further from the melons, and it’s a good thing, sort of, that his sense of responsibility is just slightly larger than his need to slink back to unconsciousness and shut his brain off from the grief.

 _At least it’s not raining_ , Adust thinks, walking out the door. Clear skies, but already he can feel the cold of the coming winter, and he’s reconsidering changing clothes already. It’s been almost a month since he’s been back in Sanctuary, and he doesn’t know whether the world’s still the same in that aspect, whether snow is still a thing, whether winter is better or worse since the world ended and left him behind —

But he doesn’t get to finish that thought, either, not before he sees Preston walk out stonily from the communal workhouse, looking stormy, brows furrowed and fists clenched. And then Adust sees MacCready, standing by the doorway to the house, looking at the same man, except visibly more confused and a little defensive. And Adust — he’s starting to really reconsider getting up, now. The mattress seems very tempting, grief-induced nightmares or not.

He really doesn’t like being involved in  _any_  kind of drama.

He doesn’t get the chance to retreat, though, and Preston looks up in time to see him as he crosses the pavement in front of the house. And — of course, typical Preston — even as stormy as his mood, the man still manages a tight, tired smile in Adust’s direction, though it looks mostly strained, and a little forced. Adust is, again, grateful for the gasmask, so he doesn’t have to force the same back.

“Morning, ‘dust. Sleep okay?” Preston asks, polite but clipped. “There’s still leftover razorgrain bread if you want it, and some shredded molerat.”

“I — yeah.” He lies. Preston’s got a whole lot of his own issues to deal with. Worrying about Adust’s mourning won’t help anyone. “Are... you okay?”

Preston paused, before he nods. As short and forced as the rest of his movements so far, stormy look coming back to his eyes. “Yeah. Fine. Just... Be careful, about the sort you get caught up with.”

Adust frowns, beneath the mask.  _What’s that supposed to mean?_  He wants to ask, gaze flicking back to MacCready, whose look has gone from confused to his usual scowl, cat-sulking by the door. Adust doesn’t know if he has the energy for this, for being caught in between whatever spat just happened, between the two different men.

So maybe it’s lucky, then, when Sturges pops out of nowhere from behind the communal workhouse, waving at him.

“’dust!” Sturges calls, all greasy overalls and one hand with the glove off. “Just got a message for you over the radio!”

Adust’s heart quickens.  _Did he?_  “What message?”

And Sturges just shrugs, before calling back, “Nick Valentine, Diamond City.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THIS TOOK FOREVER I'm so sorry, uni took up most of my time, and then i sort of got lazy over break. i mean, i still wrote, just not SYR. but i'm back, and aiming for a few more chapters before the new semester starts. anyway, this chapter is really short, about only half of my usual chapter lengths, but it's meant to be mostly filler to show time passing.
> 
> thanks for reading! every kudos and comment you give this fic thaws my cold heart.
> 
> hinted preston/sturges in here, so why not read [Human](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6246643)?
> 
> EDIT: 22 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	6. i've been working on a plan, yeah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which MacCready's got beef with a lot of people, and Adust finds some drawings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol warning.

MacCready wakes up to Adust’s whimpers.

It’s the first thing he hears, soon as his eyes crack open. And it’s not like it’s the first time — the last month or so he’s spent with the guy, basically going wherever he went, MacCready’s gotten used to hearing the subtle signs and sounds the guy gives off, regardless of the whole gasmask thing. He’s realized that Adust staring at him mid-conversation usually means he’s spacing off while thinking. Head tilting left means a smile, head tilting right means confusion. Clenched fists means a struck nerve.

And noises like these, means bad memories, or nightmares.

Not uncommon in the ‘Wealth. Definitely expected of a guy who’s lost almost everything and on a hunt for the one thing he’s got left. Doesn’t mean it makes it any easier for MacCready to hear it, though, choked, soft crying sounds from beside him, curled on the mattress near him, so  _sad_  even MacCready’s chest hurts listening to it, and he’s barely awake enough to remember he’s got limbs.

He blinks at the ceiling, vision still adjusting to being awake again, staring at the shambled roof and the paint peeling off the walls. Frowns. It rained last night, he knows that much, but at least the room they’re staying in doesn’t have any leaks. It takes a few more minutes before he can summon the strength to get up, joints popping audibly as he stretches, grunting, the cold picking up the slack of waking him up proper.  _Commonwealth winter_ , he manages to think, groggily, feeling his scowl already turning his lips,  _one of these days I’m gonna wake up with my ass fused-frozen to the floor._

Another small, quiet sob makes him look over. Adust, curled up on the mattress just a few feet away, almost in a literal ball. Mostly covered in blanket, moth-bitten and thin, and MacCready doubts it’s enough to keep out the cold. The house is about as drafty as a pre-war home could get without the whole thing actually getting torn down, and Adust may be the only person MacCready knows who actually hates the cold more than he does. Which is actually a  _pretty_  huge deal in itself. MacCready  _hates_  the cold. More than hate. If he knew of a word that was worse than hate right now, he’d use it.

 _Super hate_ , his brain smartly comes up with, because it’s too early to think properly and  _shut up, it works._

Another whimper. Adust curling in tighter, face pressed to the pillow, silver hair all fanned out around him. Half of MacCready wants to wake the guy up, but another wants to just... Leave him be. Let him sleep. MacCready’s been sleeping more since they’d adjusted to Sanctuary — and it’s a pretty decent place, if he were honest, minus how absolutely  _balls cold_  it gets come winter — but Adust’s still been having trouble. And yesterday the guy had stayed up late to help Sturges fix up one of the generators. He deserves some rest.

MacCready huffs, slowly getting up, stretching, before grabbing one of the warmer jackets Mama Murphy’d gotten from passing trader caravans, and shrugging it on. It’s a little threadbare, and it has a ridiculously ugly bottle and cappy stitch-on patch on the back, but hey, it’s free and it’s warm enough. MacCready’s had worse. And then he spares one last look to Adust — curled up, face tucked into his arms and shaking — and puts his own blanket over Adust, before heading out.

Except it’s colder outside. Great.

It’s all he can do to wrap himself up a little tighter with his jacket, jamming his fists a little rougher than necessary into his pockets, because hey, call him a baby but he likes his fingers un-frozen,  _thanks_ , before heading down to the communal workhouse right across the street. Judging from the sounds, he’s pretty sure Sturges is already up and working, because the guy has no idea what ‘rest’ means, and as he comes closer he’s pretty sure Preston’s awake too.

And then he actually steps in, and there’s a smell that makes his head  _spin_.

“Morning, MacCready.” And then there’s Preston Garvey, all around good guy, heart so gold MacCready could make teeth out of it, and now standing by the kitchen table Sturges had set up a week ago. Smiling tired, but rested, in a dark grey sweater with a gaping hole at the armpit, and holding a potful of...  _Something_ , that smells  _really_  good. “Slept okay?”

MacCready steps in fully, let’s the heat of the house warm his system as he stares at the pot (a heating system for the main house had been one of Sturges’ top priorities, apparently, since winter was pretty much rolling in by the time they got Sanctuary under his belt) and walks a little closer. It looks a lot like stew with bits of meat floating in it, and at this point, MacCready’s stomach is arguing too loud for him to actually care about what the meat  _is_.

“Oh my god.” He sniffs. “What  _is_  that?”

Preston grins. “Brahmin and tato stew, and a little bit of this and that. Family recipe. Wanna give it a try?”

“Oh hell — oh  _heck_  yeah.” MacCready grins right back, already settling down at the table, running his hand through sleep-mussed hair while Preston ladles some of the stew into a scavenged bowl. The guy looks more than a little smug when MacCready accepts the bowl, tastes it, and nearly  _chokes_  on how good it is. “This is insane.”

“Recipe from home. My ma used to make this.” Preston smiles. Preens just a little bit under the praise, though MacCready’s too busy stuffing face to point that out to tease. “She made it better, but I think I did okay.”

He guesses he’s supposed to reply or something, but his stomach’s speaking louder than his brain, so he just kind of hopes Preston takes the food inhaling as a sign of a good job. By the time he’s done, his stomach’s warm and it’s radiating out in the best sort of way. Only thing that could make it better would be a good glass of bourbon, but at this point, he’s  _good_. Part of him wants to eat more, but he’s not  _that_  much of a dick. The past month, he’s almost forgotten how hunger feels like, and yeah, okay, he’s better at shooting muties than planting mutfruit, but it feels  _good_ , to not starve.

“Where’s everyone else?” He manages to ask, sated. “The Longs?”

“Still asleep. Long day yesterday, won’t be surprised if they sleep in til noon. It’s fine, I made enough to set aside.” Preston says, jerking his head to the room with the mattresses. “Sturges and I already ate this morning. Adust?”

“Sleeping. Better leave him to it.” MacCready shrugs, reaching over to get just one more serving.  _Not like anyone else is eating yet_. “Should wake up in an hour or so. He never really sleeps in that late.”

Preston nods, relaxing into his seat. “Noted.”

They sit in a pretty easy silence, after that. Companionable. MacCready doesn’t bother being shy about eating, too used to going without to pass up on an opportunity to get more food, and Preston seems to be fine just sitting back and relaxing, eyes closed and humming. MacCready doesn’t know much about the man, but from what he’s seen, the guy’s got his own demons to deal with, some days looking optimistic and others looking downright exhausted to the bone. MacCready doesn’t pry, though. Everyone’s got their business, and so far, Preston’s been hospitable. That’s all that matters.

“So where were you from, MacCready? Before you met ‘Dust?” Preston suddenly pipes up, after MacCready’s almost done with his second helping. Trying to make pleasant conversation, probably. “Diamond City?”

MacCready pauses, spoon halfway to mouth, before he answers and resumes eating. “Goodneighbour.”

Preston opens his eyes, looking over. Raises a brow. “Rough place to be from.”

MacCready shrugs, cleaning off the rest of the bowl. “Only place I could get a job without being shot in the back. It worked, since Adust hired me.”

“Mercenary?” Preston questions.

“Yeah.” MacCready answers, eyes flickering up, a half frown on his face. “Wealth’s a dangerous place. Not the dumbest idea to get an extra gun at your back.”

Preston frowns. “Fair enough. Ain’t it dangerous to get work down there, what with the Gunners so close by? Heard they were holin’ up near the Mass Fusion building.”

MacCready snorts. “ _Oh_ , yeah. Territorial assha —  _hhh_ , territorial  _jerks_. Doesn’t help they’ve been hounding me since I left them.”

And, just like that, Preston’s face  _changes_. Hands clench into fists, eyes widening, then narrowed. All the friendliness and hospitality suddenly leaves Preston’s eyes, posture turning so tense and frown setting so deep MacCready almost does a double take, almost gets  _whiplash_  from the sudden change in attitude.  _What?_

“You were a Gunner.” Preston states. Not a question. Lips moving into a thin, pressed line. Not looking exactly  _pissed_ , but not happy either.

And MacCready knows he’s being sized up when he sees it, feeling his own scowl spread, his own muscles clenched. “For awhile.”

Preston just keeps looking at him. “... You were there for Quincy?”

“What? No. Left months before.” MacCready answers, brows furrowed. Feels a familiar cold feeling settle into his gut.  _Guilt._ “What does it matter? I  _left_.”

“... Did you kill for them?”

He scoffs. “It’s the  _Gunners_ , of course I had to kill for them. But I did what I had to do to survive, alright? Just like everyone else.” He doesn't know if he's justifying himself to Preston, or to himself.

And he’s pretty sure he sees the argument forming on Preston’s lips, mouth opening, before shutting again, and suddenly Preston’s up and leaving, looking stormy as all get out, leaving MacCready confused and staring and guilty. A part of him wants to be angry, even,  _what’s your problem?_  MacCready gets it,  _everyone’s_  heard of the Quincy massacre. But he wasn’t involved, he’d  _left_ , so what effin’  _gives_?

( He knows what gives. More than the confused anger at the sudden attitude, what hurts the most is it's just a reminder, all over again, that MacCready won't ever leave his sins behind — he's no better than the monsters that killed the families in Quincy, every person, every child, everything. Doesn't matter that he'd left. Doesn't matter that he wasn't there for the bloodbath. He was there for everytime before that, and no amount of running he'll do will ever atone for the sins he's done. He's been able to forget about it, push it to the back of his mind most days — but he hates how the look Preston gave him just reminds him, all at once, that he'll never be able to outrun the blood creeping after him. )

He finds himself following after, wanting to call Preston out about it, or at least clear some of it up. _Anything_ to ease the sudden weight on his chest. But by the time he’s out of the house, Preston’s already tromping away across the street, looking like someone’s personally pissed on his dumb cowboy hat or something, and then the door to the other house swings open and  _Adust_  steps out, and MacCready finds himself hanging by the doorway, groaning internally.

And then Preston ends up pausing, saying something to Adust. And he catches Adust looking up at him then back at Preston, and then starting to back up, like he doesn’t want to get involved, and MacCready’s halfway to stomping over and clearing things up before Preston’s head ends up ruining whatever good thing they’ve got going on here in this settlement, before Sturges suddenly pops out of  _nowhere_  with a message from Nick Valentine.

At least it distracts everyone from what happened. By the time Sturges is done, Preston’s already walked away, taking a breather by the bridge, and MacCready watches as Sturges shoots him a confused look before hurrying over. Adust himself walks over to MacCready. Not that MacCready’s gonna apologize for anything. He hasn’t done a damn thing wrong, and he’s not gonna be sorry for it.

“So, uh.” Adust says, when he comes closer. Rubbing his neck. “You and Preston... ?”

“He’s got beef with me or something because he found out I was a Gunner.” MacCready grunts. Crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. Lets the guilt turn to _anger_  — it's the only thing he knows how to do. “Not my problem. What, he tattle or something?”

“No, just asked me how I slept. And then, I, uh. Asked him if he was alright.” Adust shrugs, a little helplessly. “He just told me to ‘watch out for the sort I get caught up with’. So.”

MacCready can’t help the  _ha_  that leaves his throat. Rolls his eyes so hard it almost  _hurts_. “You’re kidding me.”

Adust shrugs again, and MacCready steps out of the way, giving the guy room to walk into the house. The place still smells like the stew Preston made, but it’s a whole lot less appetizing now that the man’s shown his opinions on MacCready.  _That’s just fine_ , he figures.  _Least I already ate._  He takes a seat back at his old spot while Adust seats across from him, peering curiously into the stewpot before walking back to the “kitchen” and taking out one of the containers they’d scavenged, mostly clean and leak-free, ladling the stew inside.

MacCready raises a brow. “Not gonna eat here?”

Adust shakes his head in response. “I... Kind of want to head to Diamond City straight away. Nick’s got what we need.”

MacCready straightens up immediately, brows furrowed, focused on Adust. “He found out where your son is?”

Adust shakes his head again, slower this time. “No. Not... Not really. But we’ve got a lead.”

 _Good enough_. MacCready nods, getting out of his seat. “I’ll pack our supplies.”

Doesn’t take too long, in the end. Both he and Adust travel relatively light, the heaviest things either of them bring being just their spare weaponry and ammo, everything else just a pair or two of spare clothes, and then food, water, stims. Basic necessities, alongside their own personal things. Adust’s got a whole section of his pack just for scavenged notes, and that holotape they’d taken from the library, and MacCready’s pack includes letters from Joseph about Duncan, his trusty sewing kit, and a tiny wooden soldier he’d give his life to protect.

He’s halfway to putting on his duster and fastening up his belt when he hears a throat clear by the door, and he turns fast to see Sturges standing at the doorway, looking sheepish. MacCready’s brows furrow.

“What?” He asks, impatient. He doesn’t have the time to beat around the bush.

“Jus’ wanted to make sure you folks got what you need before setting off.” Sturges says. “It’s colder down in the city. Tall buildings make for stronger wind.”

MacCready shrugs, clasping his belt on and slinging his trusty rifle around his back. “We’re not gonna be making camp right out on the streets. Diamond City’s got heating, you know.”

“I know, I know. Just sayin’. Better take care of yourselves out there.” Sturges replies.

And then there’s a beat or two of silence, making MacCready halfway uncomfortable. He’s almost got a good mind to turn to Sturges and ask him to just leave him alone if he’s planning on standing in silence, but then;

“Hope you don’t mind if I apologize on behalf of Preston, here.” Sturges finally says, breaking the quiet. “Quincy’s still fresh on his mind, and the Gunners leave a bad taste on his tongue, though we know you left ‘em. As far as we're concerned, anyone's welcome here, so long as they don't threaten the community none.”

 _Figures._  MacCready rolls his eyes, turning to look at Sturges with the deadest look he can muster. “Yeah, like it leaves a good taste on mine. What, he thinks I left for  _fun_?”

Sturges shakes his head. “Not what I’m sayin’. Just saying to maybe not think too hard on how he’s acting right now. He’ll come around.”

“Then  _he’ll_  come to me if he does.” MacCready snorts. “I don’t need your pity. If he wants to say anything to me, then let  _him_  do it.”

And Sturges seems to want to say something, here, before thinking better of it and turning to walk away. MacCready snorts. Feels a vague sense of accomplishment, beyond the roiling sour taste of regret. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with some other guy’s lack of faith in him, especially now that he’ll be leaving anyway. (Not like the lack of faith is even a surprise.) It’s only a minute or two after Sturges leaves that Adust pops into the house.

“Did I. Uh. Miss something?”

 _You’re better off missing it_ , MacCready’s mind says, before MacCready just huffs and throws the guy’s pack at him. “Get changed.”

In the end, they get everything packed and set to go before the Longs even wake up to eat. Sure, it’s been nice being in one place for awhile with things to do and an okay flow of caps and supplies, but it’s a good feeling, being on the open road again. He’s got no qualms living the domestic life, but for right now, he’s got stuff to do, a back to guard, and caps to earn from scavenging or jobs to send back to his own boy. And once he’s got all his layers back on, the chilly air isn’t so bad.

Besides, it means he doesn’t have to slog through the awkwardness of talking to Preston. (Doesn't have to sit through the guilt.)

Doesn’t take a genius to realize Preston’s not gonna be letting go of the incident anytime soon, though. Both the man and Sturges see the two of them off, and while Sturges is as wholeheartedly friendly to both of them as he always is, Preston barely manages a strained smile and a goodbye to Adust, and an even more forced  _take care_  at MacCready. Makes him roll his eyes and snort, not bothering with a reply before turning around to start walking.

He doesn’t have time to deal with other people’s biases. He has his own crap to sift through.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Damn it!”

The bullet scrapes his shoulder, leaving a burning, searing trail in it’s wake, and MacCready hisses as he ducks behind the corner, nearly slamming himself against the wall. More shots ring out from either side, and a part of him wants to punch whoever thought it would be a good idea to start up a settlement dead centre in the middle of damn streets in Boston. Named it  _Hangman’s Alley_  no less. Talk about asking for what’s coming to ‘em.

Another bullet plants itself next to his foot, missing it narrowly, and he barely manages to lean out and shoot the nearest supermutant. The recoil makes his shoulder hurt like  _crazy_ , but it’s not the worst he’s ever dealt with, so he grits his teeth and bears it. Helps a little that the settlers are at least pitching a hand. Nobody ever likes muties,  _especially_  not when a group of ‘em are shooting like this.

“MacCready!” He hears a voice, and turns to Adust, hiding behind a dumpster. More of a raised voice than a shout, but he can hear the tone in it. Doesn’t help that the guy’s own leg is obviously bleeding.

“I’m fine! Just shut up and watch yourself!” MacCready half-calls back, aiming his next shot and taking down a mutant hound mid-run, painting the pavement with brains and blood and sending it sprawling. He’d be a little prouder if Adust didn’t immediately follow up with a direct headshot to a supermutant on top of the next building.  _Show off_.

There’s only a few more left, he hopes. Last he checked Adust’s pip-boy when they first came into Hangman’s Alley it was already almost six. The fight goes on for any longer than that and they’ll have to spend the night in this settlement, and he’s not looking forward to sleeping on a bedroll completely open to the rest of Boston’s worst,  _especially_  now that he knows there are probably other supermutant packs around the area. All this blood’s gonna attract other things, and he’s not sticking around to find out what.

MacCready manages to bite down the pain in his shoulder as he takes out another hulking mutie with the help of one of the settlers. Adust takes out another one a little further away, making full use of his longer scope. And just when MacCready thinks it’s almost over, he catches the ugly shout of a mutie closer than he’s comfortable with, and his eyes widen when he sees the arch of a molotov being thrown into the air, and he barely shouts a warning before it hits the ground and sends everything up in flames.

Thankfully, he’s far away enough that pressing himself to the corner means he barely gets a scratch from the fire, but a muffled, pained noise by the dumpster means that  _someone_  did.  _Damn it —_ and then he’s leaning out again, aiming for another mutant, grazing it’s shoulder before someone finally lands the final nail in the head, one of the settlers with a mean hunting rifle. After that, no one dares to move for awhile. Ears strained to hear if any more are coming down to join the party. A beat. Then two.

Once he’s  _sure_  he doesn’t hear anything else coming at them, he doesn’t waste time to hurry over to the dumpster, where Adust’s leaning against the bin, head lolled against the plastic, leg bleeding. Bleeding a  _lot_. MacCready’s no medic besides the average knowledge of how to dig out surface bullets and jabbing in stims, but he’s  _pretty sure_  there shouldn’t be a growing pool of blood under the guy’s leg.

“Crap, crap — hey, you with me?” MacCready tries, sounding more panicky than he’s comfortable with.  _Feeling_  more panicky than he’s comfortable with, as he kneels next to him. “Hey, answer me!”

“‘m fine.” Adust finally replies, and MacCready nearly drops his head in relief. “Jus’... Hurts.”

And MacCready can see why. There’s not just one, but a  _few_  gunshot wounds to the leg — shotgun, no less — and after the molotov, MacCready can see the fresh burns on the left side of the guy’s hands and neck, some of the silver hair at the base of his head already half-singed. And the worst part is that Adust is  _still bleeding,_  from the buckshots embedded in his thigh, and MacCready can feel panic rise in his system. Crap, crap,  _crap —_

 _“_  Hey, stay with me, you’re gonna be fine.” MacCready finds himself staying, just a little proud for how steady his voice is.  _We’ve been in worse situations. I’ve been in worse situations. We’re good._  He hurriedly digs through his pack, digging out some stims from the side. “Hey, talk to me, man, don’t leave me hanging like this — “

“I’m losing quite a lot of blood.” Adust half-slurs intelligently, and MacCready wonders if the guy has a concussion too.

“No sh —  _duh_ , you ass. Come on.” MacCready growls.

“Hey, you guys al — oh, boy.” Comes a voice from behind him, and MacCready whips around in time to see one of the settlers, a lady with dark eyes and dark hair and dark skin with arms beefier than a brahmin. Probably the one that dealt the finishing blow to that last supermutant, if the hunting rifle she’s toting offers up any clues. “Woah, he doesn’t look too good — “

“Thanks, captain obvious!” MacCready snarls. “You gonna do anything or just stare?”

She frowns, looking at him for a second that almost makes him feel small if it weren’t for the adrenaline still coursing through his system. He doesn’t have time to care if he’s being rude or not; Adust needs a stim, he needs it quick and right  _now_  and unless Beefy Buffy here’s going to help him out, he needs her to just screw  _off —_

“Bring him in, lay him down. I’m sort of a medic, I can help him out.” She affirms, looking determined, before looking over her shoulder. “Guys, give us a hand here!”

A few of the other settlers hurry over, and MacCready finds himself grateful, for not just the fact that there happens to be a medic among this odd group of settlers, but also because he doesn’t have to lift Adust himself with his own injured arm. He tries to ignore the bloodtrail Adust is leaving, and heads inside the settlement’s (shambly, fragile) wooden walls, hitting one of the empty chairs harder than he has to when he sits, watching as they lay Adust down on one of the mattress and Doctor Buffarms gets to work.

For the most part, it looks like the injuries aren’t  _too_  bad. Still bad, obviously, no one likes getting shot except shot  _up_  with Psycho, but he hears the  _plink plink_  of bullets being dug out, and the  _clink_  of stimpaks. He presses one into the soft of his own shoulder, feeling everything knit back, though it’s still sore and tender. At least Adust doesn’t seem concussed. Just... Not great.

By the time everything’s done, the sun’s almost completely set over the horizon, the world is orange and his arm doesn’t hurt so bad anymore, after he’d jabbed himself with a stim. And Adust doesn’t look too bad either, after Doc Buffy McBufferson dug out the bullets and gave him a stim or two. By MacCready’s count, they can still make it to Diamond City in time, even if they’ll have to move slower, because he  _knows_  Adust’s going to still be feeling it even after the stims.

“You good?” He calls, from where he sits. Adust’s sitting up, but slumping, clearly in a bit of pain by the way he’s trying not to jostle his leg. There’s some blood stains on the mattress that MacCready’s sure those settlers won’t be able to get out unless they scrub at it with industrial abraxo, but he finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as Adust’s awake and alive and hopefully not on the verge of keeling over.

“Fine. Just — “ and then he stumbles, trying to stand, and Mac doesn’t hesitate to stand and come over, steadying him.

He snorts. “It’s gonna hurt like a b — you, you’re gonna be feeling that ‘til tomorrow. Now c’mon, before we gotta start feeling our way around in the dark.”

“Are you sure you two want to leave  _now_? We have enough beds.” Doc Musclemeats questions, wiping the blood off of her hands, looking concerned. “It’s dangerous out. You could leave in the morning.”

Adust shakes his head before MacCready can even open his mouth. “We can make it. We’ll be careful. Thank you.”

Doc Beefcake smiles, at that. “No, thank  _you_  two for coming just in time to help us. Remember, if you need anything, fire up your flares. We’re Minutemen now, and a  _team_.”

Internally, MacCready wants to barf at the whole corny we’re-a-team business, but he’s an adult, so he does the grownup thing and forces himself not to pull a face while Adust shakes her hand.  _Ha, mungos._ The rest of the settlers wave their own goodbyes, he helps Adust shrug on his pack and his gun, and then they’re off, MacCready sticking close to Adust’s side just in case. No doubt the leg’s sore as all get out, and while stimpaks are great for patching up wounds and injuries, they don’t replace all the bloodloss. If the guy isn’t woozy, MacCready’d be impressed.

For the most part, he thinks they’ll be fine. Adust’s moving slower, but still holding a decent pace, and MacCready’ll carry him over to Diamond City if he has to. They’ll make it. They’ll be fine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

MacCready is proud to say, as always, that he’s right.

Sure, they had to stop a few times to give Adust and his leg a break, while also giving raider gangs and supermutant camps a wide, wide berth, but in the end, they make it to Diamond City without anymore injuries besides the ones they’d already got. Good thing, too. The night brings freezing cold, and the lights and warmth of Diamond City is one of the most inviting things MacCready can think of right now.

Also, a glance to his side tells him that Adust isn’t doing too hot either. Starting to slump, and favouring one leg.

“Hey, we’re here.” MacCready tries. Nudges the guy with his shoulder. “You wanna head straight to Valentine’s or check in a room at the Dugout?”

Adust ends up leaning on his shoulder instead. “Dugout. Think... I think I really need to lie down.”

 _Fair enough_. MacCready just ends up moving a little away so he can sling his rifle over his back properly, before going back to Adust’s side and slipping one of the guy’s arms over his shoulder, letting Adust lean on him a bit (though not on the recently stimmed side.) Adust seems grateful, at least. Immediately putting more weight on Mac. At least they’re both roughly the same height and build, though Adust’s got a bit more meat on his bones from pre-war living. Not that it’s a problem anyway, Mac’s handled worse. 

The guards don’t say anything to them as they walk in, thank  _god_ , and MacCready hopes they remember the two of them as the guys who brought back Diamond City’s beloved synth. There’s still people gathered around the centre, either digging into Takahashi’s noodles or just hanging around before heading into their homes, and he’s only a little uncomfortable with the eyes that fall on them as he guides both him and Adust over to the Dugout Inn. His stomach growls for food too, but he’ll handle that as soon as he’s got this guy on a mattress and asleep.

He doesn’t even need to step into the place yet, when he comes before the red door, to hear the loudness inside. Booming, loud laughter — and he definitely knows who  _that_  is — and music coming from the radio. People talking, more laughing, some singing. It’s been a  _while_  though, since he’s last stepped foot in the Dugout Inn. Years, actually. Not since he was here with Lucy, and Duncan, and —

 _Nope. Not thinking about it_.

At least it still smells the same though, as he pushes the door open with his free arm, tugging Adust inside with him.  _Like hot food and moonshine and mildew_. And as he walks into the main room, he finds himself grinning as he looks around and hobbles to the counter. Looks the same too, same couches, same machines, same radio —

“Vadim!” He calls, grinning instantly, watching as the burly guy nearly snaps his neck turning to look at MacCready.  _Same barkeep._

“MacCready! It has been years, tovarisch!” Vadim pretty much  _bellows_. Honestly, MacCready swears, man could scare a  _deathclaw_  with how loud he is. “And you are bringing our masked friend here?”

Adust grunts. MacCready nods. “Yeah, we need a room. Got a vacancy?”

“For you, MacCready, we will even clear personal room for you. Yefim!” Vadim calls, turning to look at his brother, who snaps up to attention. “Give them room 2! And you, MacCready, you don’t sleep yet. We have much to catch up on!”

He snorts as Yefim rolls his eyes at his brother’s volume, but he still gets up and unlocks the room. MacCready manages a small thanks as he navigates both him and the now almost deadweight Adust along with him. He’s careful to lower the guy onto the bed instead of just dropping him, and part of him’s willing to bet the guy’s about  _this close_  to falling asleep in his gasmask and armour.

“’dust. Ads. Hey, you still with me?” MacCready checks, snapping his fingers, once Adust is sitting down, slouched over.

Adust manages to nod, one hand coming to scrub his face under the mask. “Yeah. Just — tired. You, um. You know these guys?”

“Sort of. Then again, Vadim considers  _everyone_  his friend.” MacCready snorts. “Sleep before you keel over. If you need me, just, uh. I dunno, scream or something.”

Adust just sort of nods, starting to unclasp his mask, and MacCready shrugs and leaves the guy be. He leaves the pack shoved into a corner, but he takes his rifle with him, and surprise surprise, Vadim’s already waiting for him with a designated stool at the bar. He finds himself grinning as he slides into the seat, and Vadim grins at him, wide and bright and warm, large hands clapping.

“Come, come, first things first, yes? What shall I get you? Food? Drink? Ah, you have not had Bobrov’s Best in years!” Vadim booms, waggling thick brows.

“Sorry, Vadim, I kind of  _want_  to wake up tomorrow.” He answers. “But I’ll take, uh. What’s the cheapest you got on the menu?”

“Nonsense! You, you are friend, MacCready. Tonight, food is on the house, as is room.” Vadim replies, face turning serious, thumping his chest with wide, rough palms.

Yefim groans. “Vadim, we cannot keep giving free — “

“MacCready has not been in Diamond City for  _years_ , Yefim! He saved our lives!” 

“Because  _I_  paid him  _our_  money to save  _you_  from those traders you insulted!”

“And he did it well, eh? We owe him!” Vadim bellows back, before turning back to MacCready, smile a mile long. “Tonight, you will have hot food and extra mattress. Beer and brahmin omelette?”

He can’t help the amused grin. “God,  _yes_ , please.”

And it is  _good_. Warm, fluffy mirelurk eggs and spiced brahmin meat to cut through the weird sourness mirelurks tend to have. MacCready barely remembers  _breathing_  while he eats, shoving forkful after forkful into his mouth, because hey, he’s not gonna say no to a free meal like this. The whole time, Vadim is talking to him, happily running a one-man conversation, keeping MacCready up to date on the recent happenings in the great green jewel (not that MacCready cares  _that_  much about what happens in here, but he’s not about to cut through Vadim’s flow. If he even could. Besides, Myrna's got eyes on Becky Fallon? _Scandalous._ ) His plate’s scraped pretty much clean by the time Vadim realizes that he’s still there, and MacCready’s halfway down his beer already.

“So! Enough about Diamond City. You, where have you  _been_ , tovarisch?” Vadim laughs, booming and warm. “When did you come back to Commonwealth?”

The laugh is contagious enough to make him smile, too. Though, the free food and the cold beer helps. MacCready grins. “Like, a year ago? Was in Goodneighbour, mostly. Taking up jobs here and there.”

“Ha! Very competent man.” Vadim praises. “And now you are travelling with vault dweller! I admit, is not the person I thought you would bring back here. Left Lucy and your son at home in Capital Wasteland, eh?”

 _Fuck_.

The word comes to his head before he’s got the chance to stop it, and he swallows the shame and the grief down his throat as he feels his own smile switch to a grimace. Feels almost embarrassed, when Vadim obviously notices too, his own grin fading. Of course Vadim would bring it up. He and Lucy got along like crazy, of  _course_  he’d bring her up, and last time MacCready was here, he’d had Lucy and Duncan on his arm, beaming loud with pride.

Now, though.

“She — she didn’t make it, Vadim.” And wow, his voice is suddenly a lot quieter than he thought it’d be. "She's gone."

He doesn’t need to see Vadim’s face to hear the sympathy. “Oh, I... I am sorry. Mouth tends to be faster than brain.”

And MacCready knows the man is sorry. Wears his heart on his sleeve, proud for display, and MacCready doesn’t need to look at his face (and right now, he feels almost too sorry to look at him anyway) to know the sympathy that lies there. No surprise there. He almost jolts out of his damn chair when Vadim puts a broad, warm palm on his arm though, and MacCready’s eyes snap up, a lot damper than he’s happy with.

( Lucy had  _loved_  the Dugout. Loved how homely it felt, loved Diamond City in general, had always told MacCready how she’d always dreamed of living in somewhere as fancy as this. And — no surprise, of course, it’s Lucy,  _his_  Lucy — everyone had loved her right back, even Valentine, even Polly, and her own loud laughter mixed in  _so damn well_  with Vadim’s, both of them laughing at the bar over a stupid joke, Duncan in her arms giggling along and wide-eyed.

Just a couple of years. That's all it took, and now he’s here without her, and no matter how much he’s convinced himself he’s moved on, Vadim’s words only remind him  _how much_  he’s missed her —)

MacCready breathes in, sharp, and he wipes his eyes with his hand before waving it off. “Nah, it’s fine. Thanks — thanks for asking.”

"She was wonderful.” Vadim offers, smiling sympathetically, and something in MacCready’s chest  _twists_  and burns. “... Did Duncan... ?”

“Duncan is _fine_.” He snaps, harsher than he wanted, and he shakes his head after, forcing his voice to stabilize, damn it. “Duncan — he’s safe, and okay.”

And it’ll  _stay_  that way, for as long as MacCready’s got a say in it. He’s already lost Lucy, he’s  _not_  going to lose his son either. He’s doing what he can, and with every cap he sends home, Duncan’s  _getting better_ , the letters have been saying so. MacCready’s going to stick by Adust’s side, watch his back, earn every cap he can scrape together, and send it home, and one day he’ll head back to the Capital Wasteland and Duncan will be waiting for him, laughing,  _running_ , and everything will be worth all of  _this_.

For now, though. He’s still got a job to do. And that job involves helping Adust out, helping him save his  _own_  son, and MacCready’s going to make sure Adust stays alive long enough to make that happen.

God, though. MacCready’s chest still hurts from thinking about her (her laugh, her eyes, the way she made jokes and immediately laughed at them by herself —) and he knows already that he won’t be sleeping much tonight.

Unless —

Well. Screw it.

“Hey, Vadim.” MacCready manages. “The offer still up on Bobrov’s Best?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Well, don’t  _you_  look rough.” Valentine greets them with the next day, standing by the metal stairs, one wannabe-brow raised.

MacCready feels his head spin, and he very kindly flips a birdie. “Shut it, Valentine.”

The synth only shakes his head, looking at Adust, who only shrugs semi-apologetically. MacCready doesn’t bother thinking about it, leaning heavily against one of the railings, yanking his cap lower so the sun doesn’t burn his face off. His head  _hurts_ , the sun needs to turn off and die, his mouth tastes like hell and his throat feels like there’s steel wool shoved down it, and if they don’t get a move on and start walking, he’s going to  _literally_  die.

Maybe not literally. But it sure  _feels_  that way.

At least his stomach’s not acting up, which, honestly, is a miracle in itself when it comes to downing shot after shot of Bobrov moonshine. Heck, he’s grateful he could still wake  _up_  this morning. And sure, most of him just kind of wanted to lie down and sleep for about forever, but he’d promised that he’d tag along, and he’s not a guy who goes back on his word. Even if his word makes him feel like he ran into a wall about a hundred times.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Valentine pipes up, pointedly, “Ellie finally managed to snag the key from the mayor, thanks to Piper’s help, so we’re free to look in as much and for as long as we want.”

Adust breathes a sigh of relief. “I... Thank you, Nick.”

Nick smiles. “Ain’t a problem, kid.”

MacCready pulls a face that he’s sure Nick sees, since the synth rolls his eyes, and okay, MacCready’s allowed a few snickers at that. Valentine starts climbing up, leading the way, Adust following after, and MacCready tries to ignore the pounding in his head as he tromps after, focusing on where he’s planting his feet, focusing extra hard to steady himself because there aren’t any hand railings on the stairs and if he falls, he’s not gonna get back up, period.

Truth be told, MacCready doesn’t even have a clue as to who they’re even looking for. And, okay, sure, maybe he should’ve asked sometime in the whole  _month_  he’s been pretty much living with Adust in Sanctuary, but it just kept slipping his mind, or he’d gotten distracted helping out with one of the thousand things needed to be done in the settlement. All he knows it that it’s probably the guy who killed Adust’s wife and took his son, or at least someone with a lead on it, and at this point, he’s pretty sure that’s all he needs to know.

The house itself doesn’t look very interesting, by the time they get to it, but he’s not that hungover that he can’t see the way Adust’s shoulders tense, as Valentine starts unlocking the door. MacCready forces himself to straighten up, too. Try to ignore the hammering in his head so he can keep an eye out. They have to look for clues for where Adust’s kid is, and every eye helps.

As the door clunks open, the three of them step in, wary. MacCready himself keeps a sharp eye out on the edges of the doorframe, on the ground, on the ceiling. He’s seen too many people shot and blown apart by laser tripwires and grenade bouquets, and if the mayor’s been so adamant to not let anyone in this house, even knowing there was a  _kidnapping_ , MacCready wouldn’t be surprised if there were traps laying on every inch of the floor. A guy who’s taken a kid would do that much.

Except there  _aren’t_  any traps, and somehow that’s even more confusing.

Valentine and Adust seem to be doing the same, at least. Carefully scoping out the room before they walk too far ahead.

“... Seems clear.” Adust voices, a little uncertainly.

Valentine nods. “Seems so. Which means either this place really  _isn’t_  noteworthy, or whatever he’s been hiding, he’s hiding it well. Check everywhere, see if anything looks out of place or offers any clues.”

At that, they split up. Or sort of, anyway — the place is small, and there isn’t really much to look at. It’s clean, for sure, for a wasteland house. It’s  _nice_ , even, and when MacCready heads upstairs he finds both a bed and a sleeping roll. Means,  _hopefully_ , the boy wasn’t being aggressively held or anything. It’s a small reassurance, and not that comforting considering the kidnapper apparently killed Adust’s wife in cold blood and snatched the kid. MacCready frowns, and keeps looking.

There really isn’t much to go on. His pounding head doesn’t help, and he’s starting to regret going on that impulse drinking session with Vadim, especially with  _moonshine_. But there’s no use on whining about it now. He can only make himself useful, but there really isn’t much to go on when all he can find are bottles of half-drunk Gwinnett, coffee cups, cooking pots, food and Nuka Cola. The most useful things he’s found so far are just a couple of handfuls of caps, and a copy of Publick Occurences folded in the shape of a paper hat. 

He’s halfway to giving up, and downstairs he can hear Nick and Adust rummaging around, talking and theorizing and MacCready doesn’t need to be a genius to know they’re starting to sound more and more defeated. There’s nothing much in here. There are houses down in the rest of Diamond City with more crap to look at than this one, and there’s no clue as to where this guy even  _is_. For a house that looks semi-lived in, there’s nothing to go by.

And then MacCready pops open one of the drawers, and a little bit of his heart breaks.

“Hey.” He calls, hesitantly. Then, a bit louder, when he realizes that neither of the two below hear him, “Hey!”

Nick answers first. “You found something, MacCready?”

“Oh, yeah.” He half-laughs. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

The paper is old in his hands, yellowed with age like most paper in the wealth is, stained a little with what looks like Nuka Cola, but what’s  _on_  it is undeniable. A drawing, in what looks like coloured pencils, of a kid with dark hair and dark eyes, standing by another man, older, bald and with a scar (which makes MacCready frown, for a second, because it’s familiar almost, because he feels like he  _knows_  that man —) and, most of all, there’s a name signed under the drawing.

Shaun.

Valentine comes up first, peering over, Adust shortly behind him. “What did you — oh.  _Oh_.”

“What is it? Is — “ and then Adust stops short. Cut in his tracks, mid-talking, and MacCready starts to feel uncomfortable, holding the paper like this.

So he hands it over. Watches the guy take it into trembling hands. And then he looks back down to the dresser and opens the other drawers, and there’s  _more_. All drawings, either in pencil or pen or crayons or something, and not half bad either. Drawings of either the kid, or characters from comics — which MacCready finds out why, after he finds a few copies of Grognak in the drawers too — and even some weird things that look like inventions, of some kind, simplified drawings of guns but with weird things attached to them, or a chair that looks like it comes with an engine. All of them, signed with the name  _Shaun_ , in a child’s scrawl.

Adust takes each of them without a word. At some point he sits down, slow, shaky and neither he nor Valentine say a word about it. By the time MacCready’s done there’s a small pile of drawings, all signed, and MacCready’s got no doubt that Adust is crying, judging by the quiet noises coming from beneath the mask, how tense he’s holding himself, how he’s holding each paper like it’ll scatter away if he holds it wrong, how he’s starting to tremble. It makes MacCready frown, concerned, sympathetic. He feels it, too. That ache, that fear.

( If the same thing happened to Duncan, he’d be on the floor by now. )

“My god.” Adust says, eventually. Breaking through the quiet, voice wet and wrecked. “It can’t — Nick, this, it, it can’t be a coincidence, it’s Shaun, I — “

His voice gives way to a choked sob, and MacCready reaches over, puts a hand on his shoulder and  _squeezes_. It’s about as good as he can offer right now, and Valentine’s face of pity only makes things hurt more.

“Agreed. Hard to be a coincidence, Kellogg bringing a kid here and the kid named Shaun.” Nick agrees. “But at least we know, now. And if the kid’s got a place to sleep, space to draw and read and presumably food and drink, at least we can safely guess they’re not bringing any harm to him. We still don’t know  _why_ , but at least we have that.”

Adust only nods at that, an ugly shudder running through his system, and MacCready grimaces. It’s hard  _not_  to feel bad for him, and even though they  _know_  now, apparently, safe to assume, it doesn’t change the fact that they know they Shaun is definitely in the hands of some rando with a cold heart and an agenda. As if Adust hasn’t already gone through so much. Maybe it’s because MacCready’s been spending a lot of time with the guy — over a month now, together, waking up and going to sleep and eating and doing Sanctuary chores and minuteman missions, fighting and healing and falling into a comfortable rhythm — but watching this, hearing the crying all over again, it’s damn  _heartwrenching_.

But at least they found  _something_. Better than coming out emptyhanded. Now they know, Kellogg and Shaun and —

And.

Wait.

“Kellogg?” MacCready suddenly says, and winces, a little, voice louder than he’d thought. Both Valentine and Adust turning to look at him. He pitches his voice a little lower. “You mean,  _Conrad_  Kellogg?”

He watches Valentine’s eyes seem to go brighter. “You know him?”

MacCready  _snorts_. “He’s the most dangerous merc in the Commonwealth, of  _course_  I know him. Not personally, I mean, but, you know.”

“So what about it? A whole lot of people have heard of him, but we’re gonna need more info if we want to make progress, here.” Nick answers. “Unless you know him personally or know where he is, I’m afraid we don’t have much.”

MacCready frowns, here. Brain starting to click pieces together, connect ideas. And then the obvious, the clearest,  _snaps_  to his mind like it’s always been there, like it’s been waiting to surface, and his eyes widen, and he offers a nod. Maybe he’s just taking advantage of the circumstances, but he also knows it’s a solid  _chance_ , and for everyone to gain a win-win situation too. And it’s not like he’s doing this just selfishly.

Mutual benefit. And he’s going to snatch it while he can.

“I don’t know him personally, sure,” he starts, “But I _can_  find out where he is.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Cold, clean water is the  _best_  taste in the whole goddamn world, and he finishes the entire can in one go. Helps that Valentine’s got painkillers on hand, too, helping ease the pounding in his head.

The detective agency is quiet, save for the sound of a desk fan and the shift of people. Adust’s sitting by him, on a chair Nick had pulled up, and the crying’s gone down, though he’s still holding onto the papers like they’re a lifeline. MacCready’s got their chairs close enough that their shoulders nudge up against each other, though. He hopes that’ll offer at least some kind of grounding comfort, though MacCready knows he’s never been good at it anyway.

Valentine himself is seated across from them, clearing the space, full of papers of cheating spouses and runaway cats (MacCready spies the name  _Hawthorne_  in almost all the forms, what the heck), and Ellie Perkins was in all up until ten minutes ago, saying she was grabbing her lunch break with Piper, disappearing and leaving them alone.

“So.” Valentine starts. Eyes MacCready, slow and careful. “Talk to us ‘bout your plan.”

Well. Here goes nothing.

“So, don’t know if  _you_  know, but I ran with the Gunners for a big part of last year after I came back to the ’Wealth. They needed a sniper and I have the gun. Took only about two weeks of initiation before they let me into their ranks.” MacCready starts, launching into it. “And the Gunners are careful people, you know that. More dangerous than raiders. Better weapons, better armour, strategic mercenaries.”

“Biggest unaligned force in the ’Wealth too.” Valentine chips in.

MacCready nods. “Exactly. But you don’t become powerful by being stupid. Taking over the Commonwealth is — it's harder than anyone would think because of all the other factions and gangs running the place. Part of being a Gunner means knowing who and who  _not_  to f — to screw with. What territory was ours and wasn't, which ones we could take and which ones we had to stay away from and which ones we were gonna ally with. I mean, we had actual  _lists_  written down in the Gunner’s plaza, in the terminals, of who we have to watch out for, updated like once every two months and it’s passed out among all the rest of us so we don’t accidentally shoot the wrong guy and start a goddamn massacre. And guess who’s on that list.”

“Kellogg.”

Adust, surprisingly, answers this time. Voice raw from crying, but sort of... Determined. Sitting straighter, intently listening, even with the gasmask covering his face. MacCready turns to look at him, and snaps his fingers.

“Bingo. You got it. Didn’t take me longer than a week of being in the ranks to hear his name. ‘m sure you already know this, Valentine —  but Kellogg, he’s  _dangerous_. And I mean,  _no one_  makes enemies with Kellogg, because everyone who’s ever tried’s turned up dead within the week. The Gunners, yeah, powerful force and everything, but Kellogg’s got a reputation and if some of the top raider groups in the ’Wealth couldn’t lay a hand on him, we weren’t stupid enough to try.”

Valentine gives him a skeptical look, then, frowning. “Good to know, MacCready, but besides knowing he’s on the watchlist, how’s this going to help us?”

“Because when we watch out for dangerous people, the Gunners keep track of  _where they are_.” MacCready says. Grinning, now, as he’s gaining momentum, laying it out. “Listen,  _every_  major location the Gunners got a stronghold on, they keep tabs on where all the dangerous players are at, so no one ends up stepping on any toes. The lists I mentioned, passed out to the rest of us? Like you said, largest unaligned force in the Commonwealth. Means we got eyes everywhere. Which means anywhere with a major Gunner station and a terminal, good chance we can find out wherever the hell Kellogg’s holed up to these days.”

Nick’s starting to catch on, now, yellow eyes brightly glowing, and Adust sitting straighter, looking right at him. MacCready looks at him right back, challenging.  _Knowing_ , somewhere, that Adust is going to piece this together.

“Winlock and Barnes.” Adust says. And MacCready’s head rings with an affirmative  _yes!_ Like he’s snapped the final piece of the puzzle together. “They would know.”

“ _Exactly_. Those two assh — those two  _jerkwads_  are pretty high up in ranks,  _and_  they’ve got a major point setup at Mass Pike Interchange. I've been up there a couple times before and I know they've got terminals. I can almost  _guarantee_  that we can find out where Conrad Kellogg is if we head up there.”

“Sure, assuming they don’t put a few holes in the both of you first.” Nick points out. “You’ve got a plan in this, MacCready. Coming hot and fast while you link it to Kellogg. But you’ve got your own reasons. Why’re you pitching this forward?”

MacCready turns to look at Nick, now, putting a hand on the table. “Because they’ve been hounding after me ever since I left. They’ve been trying to chase me out ‘cause I kept taking jobs on Gunner territory. I was gonna just pay them off or something, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess how  _that’d_  pan out. They’d just take my caps, put a bullet in my skull and leave.”

“So it’s a win-win. If we go there and take them out, I find out where Kellogg is, and you get them off your back.” Adust says, the dawning realization in his voice enough to let MacCready know that he’s  _got it_.

“Got it in one.” MacCready finishes. Leans back in his chair, but keeps his eyes set on Adust. In the end, it’s the guy’s decision. He can only hope Adust agrees to it, because alone, MacCready doesn’t stand a chance going up close to kill them off. But with Adust?  _Oh ho_ , they’re going to be a force of  _nature_. MacCready’s proud of his sniping skills, but he’s not stupid enough to deny Adust’s better ones, honed from his pre-war years. Now, he’s hoping that they can use it to their advantage. And then he’ll finally be able to walk around without fear of Gunners aiming right for a target on his back, and Adust will be a step closer to finding his boy.

“So are we gonna do this?” He prompts. Maybe he sounds just a  _little_  needy, but this is the closest shot he’s going to get without having to hire another merc. And it  _is_ for Adust's benefit. “With the two of us, they won’t be a problem. We can  _do this_.”

And it’s quiet for a bit. Adust, unreadable as always, and MacCready on the edge of his seat. Sure, they could  _not_  do this and find some other way to find Kellogg, if they had to. Travelling with Adust so far’s kept him out of mostly Gunner territory anyway. But here, this, they could kill two birds with one stone, and while MacCready’s naturally  _ecstatic_  to get those irritating douchebags off his back, he’s also sincerely, genuinely sure that they’ll find Kellogg faster this way. And he does, in all honesty, want to help Adust out in that sense. He  _does_.

Adust’s been kind, patient with him, throughout the past month, working together even through MacCready’s mouth and impatience. And maybe the guy’s still ironing out some trust issues (not that MacCready can blame him, at  _all_ ), but MacCready  _knows_  they work great as a team. They’ve been doing it for awhile, and they’re still alive somehow. And being around the guy pretty much every day, relying on each other to stay alive, working together to make sure they don’t end up on some raider’s pike during a Minuteman mission or freezing in Sanctuary — there’s  _no way_  they aren’t at  _least_  some sort of friends, now. Acquaintances at least.

Especially with MacCready being able to understand, at least a  _gist_ , of what Adust is going through. Away from home, wives killed, children in trouble. It takes one to know one, and MacCready’s pretty sure he’s got a hint.

Somehow,  _somehow_ , MacCready’s got the feeling that Adust actually cares about what happens to him. And at this point, MacCready figures he cares at least a little bit right back.

Friends or not, in the wastes, it’s more than enough.

“Okay.” Adust finally answers. Snaps MacCready back to reality, and makes a grin cross his face. “We can do this. It’s the best chance we have to Kellogg. To Shaun.”

“Heck  _yeah_  we can do this!” MacCready answers, maybe a bit more enthusiastically than needed, but he’s genuinely  _pumped_  to get those a-holes off his back for  _good_.

“We can. All three of us.” Valentine interjects, offering a half-smile when the two of them turn to look at him. “Against Gunners, you’re goin’ to need all the help you can get. And I’m always willing to help out a good cause. Would make the roads down there safer to travel through, too, with the Gunners out of the way, hopefully for good.”

 _This is great,_  he brain hollers,  _this is great!_  Sure, he’s not the fondest guy in the room for Nick Valentine, but hey, extra arms are welcome.

“Welcome to the party.” MacCready says, grins.

“Tell us what to expect.” Valentine replies.

In his mind, he tries to recall. It’s been months and months and months since he’d left Winlock’s Gunner gang, but he doubts they’d add any upgrades there. Those two meatheads are so cocky they don’t even bother putting up  _turrets_.

“Should be just a whole lot of Gunners, and the usual traps. Doubt they’ve put up any turrets since I  left, but I could be wrong.” MacCready recalls. “Oh —  an assaultron. They’ve  _definitely_  got an assaultron. And power armour.”

“So we definitely need to take that one out first. They’re a whole lot hardier than the Gunners themselves.” Valentine says, which MacCready immediately nods at. “Well, lucky for us we’ve got two snipers on board. If we can take them out from a distance, all the better. I’ll be there to back you both up, when we start heading in closer.”

“I. I think we leave tomorrow. First thing tomorrow morning.” Adust answers. “Need to stock up, be prepared.”

“And  _someone_  needs to shake off a hangover.” Nick points out.

MacCready just snorts. “I could be drunk and still a better shot than you, Valentine.”

“Sure, but I’m not goin’ to haul your body back to DC if you try.” Nick counters. “sounds like we have a plan. Get what you need to. We’ll meet by the gates tomorrow morning, at dawn.”

Beside him, he sees Adust slowly, but surely, nod. Muscles still tense, but looking like he’s already rearing to go. MacCready shifts, just slightly, nudges Adust’s shoulder with his own, and gives him a little nod of confidence. Grins a little wider, when Adust nods right back, just as firmly, after a beat. Hand still tightly holding onto the proof of his son, in his palm, drawn in pencil and crayon and stained with Nuka Cola. 

“Sounds like a plan.” MacCready grins.  _We’re finally gonna do this_. “Sounds like a  _damn good_  plan to me.”

And it’s the best sound he’s heard all day, when he sees Adust pause, and then  _nod,_ in affirmation. “We can do it.”

 _Yeah, we can_ , MacCready thinks. 

Tomorrow, it’ll be a new day. A new mission. And he’s determined, above all else, to get it done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm posting this super tired pls forgive me for any mistakes i'm at the point of tiredness where half of what i write doesn't make any sense. anyway yes look at me being cool and stuff linking macs personal quest and a main quest together. wooooooo (i'm not actually cool but i really want to pretend)
> 
> anyway pls read [Hippocratic Oath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922475) it's good give it commetns and kudos
> 
> also give me commetns and kudos. i would be very happy. goodnite
> 
> edit 26/12/2017: mac n preston's dialogue edited for better coherency
> 
> EDIT: 22 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	7. and when i feel like i can feel once again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust likes public transport, and MacCready has a hate/love relationship with knives.

The .308s shine dully in his hand, just a little. It’s not a whole lot, but it’s the most they can afford, right now, and Adust can work with it. Preferably, he’d like to stick with his sniper rifle — he works better, at a distance, where he can take his time to line up shots instead of facing anyone head on — but he still has his others in his pack, if he has to, and a nice new shotgun Arturo had been kind enough to sell him at a discount. To quote the man,  _it’s got enough punch to blow limbs off!_

Which is, in a way, disturbingly reassuring.

But while every day is still a careful balancing act between focusing on the tasks given to him and trying not to lose himself in the reminders of the old world, and while the nights still holds it’s own darkness, memories of dark hair and gunshots bringing him to his knees and choking on his own tears everytime he thinks of her in the evening, grief almost knocking his soul out every time he catches a glimpse of a box of Sugarbombs, it’s — oddly, more bearable now.

Not by much. But bearable, with people and tasks to occupy his mind, keeping himself busy. The people at Sanctuary, working hard to make it a place worth living in again, and sometimes on better days Adust can even admire them, the beauty of what they’re doing, instead of remembering how the neighbourhood had been pristine and  _paradise_  just  _weeks_  before, for him. And maybe the tasks he’s given everyday is more bloody than the world before, things more violence and dangerous — he... He can appreciate, this. The people. Trying to survive and working hard to do so. It’s a fraction of what the old world used to be, but he takes comfort, at least, to know that even after the end of the world, people are still surviving. Together.

It’s warming, at least slightly, on the days where his head isn’t so cloudy.

And there’s the people themselves. Preston and Sturges, warm and genuine and brave, helping hands no matter the time. Wise Mama Murphy, with winding prophecies and cheeky smiles. The Longs, slowly starting to find each other again. All the hardworking people Adust gets to meet, running Minutemen missions. Daisy, in Goodneighbour, who is more help and who he’s grateful for in words he can’t possibly express. Nick Valentine, the embodiment of lawful goodness, and Ellie Perkins with her infectious low laugh and warm smile. Piper Wright, fighting the good fight, and little Nat, viciously determined.

And a mercenary at his side, who Adust’s starting to warm up to, properly. Always equipped with lame puns and snarky one-liners.  _Damn good_  with a gun, and these days, they’re starting to fall in sync, fighting together. Trust is still hard earned, a rare commodity, but Adust is starting to lay it down a little more. MacCready’s been doing the same. It may have taken more than a few bullets and a few harsh talking tos to just  _let him do his job already_  but it’s... Worked. And it’s hard to be too wary anymore around someone, when you’re with them every day for over a month, waking and eating and fighting. And in a way, it’s good.

Friendship. He's missed it.

As it stands, he’s almost certain MacCready’s more hyped to go than even he is. The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, the sky soft with milky violets and the last traces of night. December air is starting to chill his bones, his fingers, settling into his capillaries with frost spreading fractals in his bloodstream, and the Commonwealth is quiet, at this time of day. Still asleep, barely rising. Even he, with the prospect of finding the man who’s taken his son and killed his wife, and Adust still finds himself shaking the sleep from his system, leaning against the cold rails leading to the stairs out of Diamond City, willing the tiredness from the marrows of his bones.

On the other hand, there’s MacCready, who’s been pacing back and forth since they’d left the Dugout, looking restless and excited in equal measure. Scarf wrapped tight against his thin neck, wearing multiple layers of shirts — including a plated one — beneath the duster, rubbing gloved hands together for a semblance of warmth. It’s a miracle he hasn’t worn a path into the ground with how much he’s pacing. 

“C’mon, c’mon, where’s Valentine? Said he’d be here already. What, his chrono-whatever off in his head?” MacCready pipes up, grumbling, staring at the direction of Publick Occurences.

Adust manages a small shrug, even though Mac’s not looking at him. “He said he had to talk to Ellie.”

“About what, the Glory of Atom?” MacCready turns, snorting.

It takes him a small amount of time before he realizes that he... Doesn’t exactly know what that means, and he misses his window of replying without sounding awkward. So Adust just keeps quiet, goes back to rubbing his gloved hands, only mildly warmed. Watches, as MacCready’s breath mists, then fades, into the cold winter air. Wonders idly, if it still snows, whether it will, whether it’s as radioactive as everything else in the wastes or whether it’s just an occasional thing, like storms and radstorms.

He wonders whether Shaun’s already experienced his first snowfall, without them.

His heart  _clenches_ , so painfully he flinches, already warmth pricking his eyes behind the mask, and he digs his clothed fingers into the meat of his palms, willing himself to  _calm the fuck down_. It must’ve been obvious, to MacCready, judging by the way Adust looks up only to see the man looking at him, brows furrowed in concern, expression softer than the annoyance it held before.

“Hey, you good?” MacCready pipes up. Echoing, among the silence of Diamond City’s dawn.

“I’m fine.” Because he isn’t, he really isn’t, but MacCready of all people should know by now that this is as fine as he can get.

MacCready falls quiet, at that, for a moment. Breathing in, with every exhale fading into the air, and Adust wonders if he’s killed the conversation again, wonders when he’ll ever find his words again, when MacCready looks back at him. Blue, blue eyes, a winter’s morning. Intense, and so... Sincere. So genuine. For a second, Adust is taken aback.

“We’ll find him. Kellogg. And then your kid.” MacCready says. Voice firm. “And then we’re gonna kick Kellogg’s ass for doing what he did to you.”

And MacCready just sounds so  _certain_  now. So sure that they’ll find Kellogg, that they’ll find Shaun, and Adust can only hope he can tap into that assuredness and use it to strengthen whatever he has left of his willpower. Because somewhere inside, he wonders if Shaun would even  _want_  to come with him. Wonders if Shaun is even safe, is even still in the Commonwealth, or whether he’s out there somewhere else. Or with the Institute. It’s a terrifying thought.

A huff brings him back to reality, and MacCready’s back to looking sour. “Man, Valentine’s taking  _forever_. He’d better be fighting an army of fire ants in there to take this long.”

A returning snort comes from the direction of Publick Occurrences, and Adust stifles a small smile as MacCready whips back around to see Nick stepping out, shutting the metal door behind him.

“Actually, was just telling her which cases she could help me with within Diamond City’s area, since I’ll be gone a couple of days.” Nick says, an amused smile on his face. “Think I’ll pass on fire ant wrestlin’ for now. Ain’t my kinda hobby.”

MacCready rolls his eyes so hard Adust can almost  _hear_  it. “Shut it, Valentine.”

“Are we ready to go?” Adust pipes up, coming down from the cold railing.

“Seems so. Piper and Ellie gave us a few more supplies to take too. Can never have enough clean water.” Nick answers, nodding. “Anything else we need to know, MacCready?”

The merc shakes his head. “Nah, nothing concrete. I know how to get up there and a rough idea of what to expect, but I dunno if they’ve changed anything since I left. Lot of things could’ve happened.”

Adust still remembers what Piper had told him, the first time she’d lead him to Goodneighbour from Diamond City, the day that he’d met MacCready for the first time.  _Most dangerous mercs in the Commonwealth, and the largest single unalligned force. If they’re not being killers-for-hire they’ll plunder whatever they can. They’ll kill anything and anyone for enough caps. They’re organized, well-equipped and smart._

Funny, that, how immediately after she’d given her warning, he’d gone and hired an ex-Gunner with the faction pointing a target at his back.

( A smaller part of him wonders if MacCready’s only doing this so they can get Winlock and Barnes off his back, before leaving. Adust wouldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t. MacCready’s already done more than his fair share of work, he thinks.

He hopes otherwise, though. He sees what MacCready does — they work well together. They do. They make a good team, no matter how long it took Adust to realize. And while Adust wouldn’t blame MacCready, if he wanted to leave after this, he hopes he won’t.

It’s good to have a friend at his side, especially in times like these. )

But even after this, after they’re done with the Gunners, Adust worries. Feels guilty over his hesitance, his  _fear_  of dealing with Kellogg, who so far’s sounded like he’s met with fear and dread in equal measure, from even the Commonwealth’s most dangerous. The idea send chills down his spine, creeping into his core more than the actual temperature is. His mind refuses to think about what it could spell for Shaun. Can only grasp onto the hope, given by the fact Kellogg’s house looked at least clean and warm and had beds and food and water for two, given by the  _drawings_ , that Shaun is alright. He has to be. He must.

“Let’s go then.” Adust says, watching the other two nod, and he slings back his rifle before heading up the steps, the yellows and pinks of sunrise starting to paint their streaks across the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

A resounding  _crack!!_  Echoes throughout the open air, watching the final raider fall, the bullet splitting open their skull in a truly impressive way. The body falls and disappears as it falls over the broken edge of the bridge, and Adust lowers his rifle carefully, once he’s sure there aren’t anymore hostiles. Beside him MacCready snorts, while Nick offers a low whistle, all three of them moving to stand again.

“Sniper, huh.” Nick notes, one brow cocked. “Impressive.”

“More like pre-war showoff.” MacCready snorts. “Bet you can’t do that twice.”

Except he has, had done it just earlier, so Adust knows he’s just joking. It’s enough to make him smile, a little, beneath his mask, and maybe MacCready’s figured out how because the man grins right back, cocky and self-assured. Energetic and pumped, full of restless energy, ever since they’d left Diamond City a few hours ago, probably excited to the prospect of being able to take down the Gunners that had their guns aimed at his back. Adust can’t blame him. He’s a little restless himself, though mostly because he’ll finally be able to (hopefully) locate the man who took his son and shot his best friend. You know. Regular things to be excited about.

The thought still hurts, in the end. He stops smiling, after that, but they’re already moving, so he keeps his mind on the footsteps in front of him, the layout of the land and the idle chatter between Nick and MacCready, most of which he can’t understand anyway. Something about the chem trades between Goodneighbour and Diamond City, and something about McDonough’s new trade laws. He’s still sort of half paying attention, but it’s not like he knows even half the people the two are mentioning anyway, so he focuses mostly on keeping one foot in front of the other, and watching the horizon for hostiles as they make their way down.

Adust knows where Mass Pike Interchange is. Or he used to, anyway, before the bombs fell and he was shut into cryo like a bag of frozen peas. Now it’s less about knowing the location and more about knowing the way, and preparing for everything in between. What would’ve taken an hour to get to before the war, now it takes hours and hours to get to, if only because they have to navigate ruins, hostiles and debris. Already they’ve had to deal with a few raiders, gathered up in chokepoints to take out passing traders and settlers, and a whole lot of bloatflies, which Adust had been fortunate enough to not have to engage himself, with the more experienced Nick and MacCready exterminating them before Adust had to.

Still, though. It feels like a whole new world in itself, the same places but never quite right. Like he’s living in a dream he can’t wake from, floating just out of sight from his old self, tethered by nothing but memories of a world that’s gone, leaving nothing but ashes and the ghosts of itself and the people who used to be. He doesn’t need to look any farther than himself to feel alienated, at times, when he’s given too much room to think. He doesn’t need to look any farther than himself to know that he’s a tourist, here, in his own birthplace. A foreigner in the land that bore him.

His hands are calloused from the war before, but they’ll never be as rough as the ones of the people who grew up in the wasteland, who’ve been working their whole lives. His teeth are clean and straight and almost-perfect beneath his mask, and beside him, MacCready’s are half rotted, some crooked, some further back not there altogether. Adust’s been trained as a sniper, he’s can take out heads from yards and yards and yards away, and the battlefield and death are familiar ground, but for the people in the wastes, it’s not just familiarity. It’s  _life_. Whatever he’d gone through before the bombs, the battlefields he’d been in, the bloodshed... It’s nothing compared to what the people here live through, their whole lives.

( And in his mind, he wonders if Jennifer would’ve done better here. She always  _was_  better at talking than he was, better at melding and adapting to situations. Better at thinking, charismatic, charming. Maybe she wouldn’t know how to handle a gun, maybe she’d take a little longer to find Shaun on account of her need to take on as many tasks as she can, but these days, determination and a wise mouth can be as effective as any other weapon.

He still wishes, every night, that he’d been the one to die. Not her. Maybe it’s cowardly to think so, but it’s the truth. Or maybe it’d be easier if they’d both died together in there. Maybe.

Out of everything the wasteland has thrown at him, surviving without her by his side has been the hardest part. )

He knows one day he’ll get used to it. He’ll have to, if he wants to survive. If he wants to avenge Jennifer and get Shaun back, if he wants to raise a child here. It’s not impossible. He’s seen it, the settlers, the families. It’s rough, not even close to what now seems like the luxury of the old world’s simplest lives, but... People are still happy. They make do with what they have. Work hard and do what they love and have families and just  _be_. 

It’s all he’d ever wanted, even back then. Even as a child with nothing, even as an adult with everything, and even now as a nobody with only a grasp at  _something_. He’s only ever wanted a simple life, a quiet life, with family and loved ones. And it’s not impossible out here. It’s a distant comfort, but grounding all the same, that one day he’ll hopefully be okay out here. Hopefully.

The first step is to try and find Shaun.

So it’s a relief, then, as the afternoon sun starts to rise higher in the sky, warming the chill that’s settled under their skin since they’d left Diamond City earlier that morning, that they see it. In the distance, metal giants from centuries long gone, left over broken and bent over weeping, rusted, in the cold mist in the distance. It’s hard to believe that not so long ago, for him, people could drive down there. Now there are pieces, whole chunks of the interchange missing, embedded in the earth like a self-made tombstone for itself, and further still he sees movement. Windmills, probably for power. Newer additions from the new residents.

“We’re almost there.” MacCready says, beside him, jolting him back to the conversation. Adust had only been half-listening. Something about supermutants holed up in Trinity Tower.

“What should we expect on the ground?” Nick asks, one hand in his trench coat pocket and the metal one on his gun, a nice laser pistol they’d taken from one of the raiders earlier on.

MacCready’s gaze never leave the Gunner base in the distance, eyes narrowed. “On the ground? Probably some of the lower ranked ones. Usually newer initiates. Nothing too hard. Tricky part is when we head up, they’ve probably got an assaultron somewhere there with ‘em. Five raiders make one decent Gunner, but five regular Gunners can make one assaultron.”

“Fair enough.” Nick answers, nodding. “If those are the lower ranked ones, what are the two you talked about? Winlock and Barnes?”

“Sergeants, both of them.” MacCready answers. “Winlock was supposed to be ranked up to commander, but that rug got pulled from under his feet after one of his recruits jumped ship — and maybe took some few hundred caps with him.”

Adust shakes his head. “That was you, wasn’t it.”

A toothy grin is all he gets in return.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask about MacCready’s role in there, why he got in and how he got out in the first place. All three of them keep quiet immediately, seeing flashes of Gunner green coming closer, and a distinct robotic shape standing dormant and on guard by what looks like the lift up at the main stretch of the interchange still standing upright. They stop a good distance away, farther from where the Gunners can spot them if they’re not looking, where they’re still specks in the distance, but close enough that they can strategize before going in.

Adust and MacCready both find themselves looking through their scopes at the same time, unprompted, scanning both their surroundings, the horizon, and the interchange up above, for hostiles or anything that could delay or help them.

“Damn it,” MacCready whispers, harsh, next to him. “I was wrong. Looks like they grew a braincell or two and put up a few turrets.”

“Any snipers looking our way, though?” Nick asks, between them, readying his gun.

“None that I can see.” Adust answers, putting down his rifle. “How do we get up there even if we take out the Gunners below?”

“There’s two ways — the elevator directly ahead of us, the one the Gunners are guarding, or the other one further down. Should only be one or two guards at best there.” MacCready explains, glancing back at Adust, voice serious. 

And Adust is familiar with that tone. It means, business, it means strategy. Adust didn’t need to know MacCready long to find out that for every smart remark the merc makes, he has the skill to back it up. Makes up for his stealth by being perceptive, makes up for his cocky attitude by laying bullets in skulls. Here, now, they’re on MacCready’s territory, on land he’s most familiar with, even if things have changed. 

For now, at least, MacCready’s in charge.

“So what’s the plan?” Nick asks.

“We gotta take out the ground crew first. Even if we sneak by without taking them down, last thing we need is for them to head up when the firefight starts and give us even more hostiles in a tiny spot, or worse — ambushing us from the other side. So we use the side elevator. Will take us longer to get to it, but we’re sure as hell not gonna use the main one and walk right into the Gunner nest.”

“We’ll have to draw ‘em out, if we’re plannin’ to go through this without bringin’ the rest of them down here with us.” Nick says, nudging his head to the interchange.

“So we go far and wide.” Adust says. “MacCready and I take longer distances.  We both take opposite points of the field, and — “

“ — and I become live bait. Got it.” Nick finishes, looking amused. Shakes his head before Adust can even apologize. “Save it, it’s fine. It makes sense. Draw them to me, then the both of you take them out. I get it.”

At least MacCready looks entertained by the idea. “Hey, we’ll be dealing with the assaultron later, if that’s any comfort. You look like you could use a girlfriend, Valentine.”

The withering look Nick shoots MacCready could, in all accounts, retract balls. “Quiet, MacCready.”

Adust ignores the quiet snickering coming from the merc, turning back towards where the Gunners are at. “You really don’t think they’ll spot us?”

MacCready shakes his head, letting the snickers die down. “Nah, they won’t waste their time like that. We go far enough away and they’ll think we’re just regular hunters, off in the distance shooting radstags or yao guai or whatever. They’ll let the ground crew handle it. They’ll probably only start worrying if they don’t hear the crew coming back after a bit, so we have to take ‘em out and head up in that timeframe.”

“And you’re sure this’ll work?” Nick questions.

MacCready shrugs, turning back to the interchange. “Uh, no? Hell, they might be scouring the entire time anyway. There’s no guarantees with _any_ of this, but it’s a hell lot of a better risk to take than charging straight on, or trying to fire shots from right under their noses. If you've got better ideas, let me know.”

It’s fair enough reasoning, and a good enough chance as any. Keeping themselves low and their steps light, or as light as they can, anyway. Halfway across, they separate, MacCready hiding out closer to the interchange behind a quiet, shaded little spot in between three dead trees, keeping low and blending in with the tall, dead grass. Adust goes out the furthest, far enough away that he can’t see MacCready anymore, hiding out behind one of the bigger metal pillars and debris of the fallen parts of the road and lying on his belly, hidden in shadow. Instincts and all his time in sniper training kicks in. His breathing slows. And in the middle, between them both, is Nick, who in his noir detective garb and entirely synthetic nature looks almost comedically out of place, out in the open field.

The game starts as soon as Valentine fires the first shot.

Adust holds his breath.

_BANG!!_

The gunshot rings loud across the empty field, firing empty into the distance, sounding faintly like it hit something metal. Adust watches as Nick takes second aim, firing at a decaying billboard in the distance, something the Gunners are  _sure_  to notice if they haven’t already. Between them, Nick stands ready and waiting, keeping his eyes trained on the direction of where the Gunners should be coming from, and especially trained above. Last thing he needs is a sniper coming from nowhere and shooting him full of holes. Beyond that, it’s just a waiting game.

And the Gunners don’t disappoint.

It’s less than five minutes before Adust spots figures coming in from the distance, and he has his rifle up before he even draws his next breath. He spots four of them out of the five that he and MacCready had spotted earlier — they’d probably done the smart thing and left at least one guard to watch after the elevator. It doesn’t matter too much, they can take out that one later after they’re done with these guys.

He can pinpoint the exact moment they spot Nick. Eyes widening, muscles tensing, hands moving immediately to hold their weapons up proper. And in that exact moment, two shots fire — his, and MacCready’s. Breaths exhaled with the squeeze of the trigger and two of the four Gunners go down without a sound, clean shots to the head, the other two immediately faltering in their movements to look at their fallen comrades, caught off guard and stumbling in their steps in the split second where they’re trying to register what’s happening.

Rookie mistake, on their part, taking their eyes off of Nick for even a second. Nick moves quick, or as quick as a man made almost entirely out of mechanical parts can, and pops three quick shots into one of the Gunners remaining, a man with a bandanna around his neck. One of those shots misses, but the other two making home in the Gunner’s chest and leg. It’s enough to bring bandanna guy down to the ground, though he isn’t dead yet, and the one upright Gunner, a woman with a mean looking laser pistol, fires angry shots at Nick, who ducks and rolls onto the ground right as Adust squeezes the trigger a second time and puts a clean hole through her head before she can fire again. Bandanna gets similar treatment from the opposite end of the firefight, and then it falls quiet.

Adust makes sure to take a good survey of the direction of the Gunner base and the interchange above with his rifle’s scope before hurrying low to the centre, meeting MacCready and Nick halfway. From what he can see, none of them have a scratch on them, which he’ll doubt will be a continuing trend once they make it up on the interchange itself. The only damage is a few dirt scuffs on Nick, and a singed hole through his coat.

“Ellie’ll kill me if these Gunners don’t do it first.” Nick says offhandedly, peering at the hole as he reloads his pistol.

MacCready barely looks at him as he squats down, rummaging through the pockets of the fallen Gunners for anything worth taking. “Quit whining. I could fix that.”

Nick raises a brow that MacCready doesn’t see. “You can sew?”

MacCready turns and raises one back. “You can’t?”

Adust snorts, a little, under his mask, going through the pockets as well while the exchange happens. He’s getting better at this, at least, quicker. 

( When he first had to do this, when he’d first met Preston and the rest of the remaining of Quincy, he’d been a little apprehensive, admittedly, at the thought of it. But he’s had sticky fingers and quick hands even in his youth, and these days, killing comes easy, especially since every person he’s had to kill so far have been unsavoury, often downright horrible people.  _They won’t be needing it anymore, might as well keep yourself alive,_  Preston had said the first time. )

In the end, they find a few handfuls of ammo, including laser cells, which both he and MacCready pass on to Nick, who takes up one of the fallen laser pistols, enhanced and powerful and more accurate than his current pistol. There’s two stimpaks which he and MacCready split between the two of them, and then packs of cigarettes that get shared between Nick and MacCready. Beyond that, there isn’t much else, and they’re done in a matter of minutes.

They continue keeping quiet and low as they make their way back to where the lifts are, hiding under the shade of the interchange and keeping out of sight from the Gunners higher up. True as he’d guessed, there’s only one Gunner guarding the lift, idly having a cigarette while keeping an eye on the far distance, probably waiting for his friends to come back. Adust signals for MacCready and Valentine to stop and wait as he crawls forward. Keeping low and quiet and just out of sight, the Gunner without anyone to watch out for him doesn't realize Adust coming up behind him until after the hands grabs his head and violently snaps his neck. The man falls with a thump, Nick quickly takes out the fusion cells from his pocket, and MacCready shoots Adust a simultaneous impressed and slightly startled look that makes Adust cough awkwardly, under his mask.

(He's not just good with a rifle, after all. May not be great at frontal combat, but stealth has always been his forte. He's just as good with a dagger and the cover of night as he is with a scope and a rifle. He ought to invest in a decent knife one of these days.)

But this is only the easiest part. Everyone seems to agree with that at least, judging by how they quickly quieten down and hurry over to where MacCready’d pointed out the second lift.

So far, at least, the predictions are right. The second lift only has two guards standing by it, chatting idly with each other. Adust notices their eyes widening in surprise when they finally realize the three of them emerging from the shade, weapons lifting, but the surprise must catch the two Gunners off guard with shots that stray as MacCready and Nick dash forward and Adust to the side. One Gunner gets the butt of a gun right to his jaw, courtesy of MacCready, and the other gets his windpipe broken by a sharp punch from Nick, clawing and gasping for air as his knees buckle. The two bodies fall with a slump, and Adust finishes off the first one with a snap to the neck just to make sure he doesn't get up again.

“Think they heard that one?” Nick asks, voice low, eyes trained above them.

MacCready shakes his head, but he has his eyes in the same direction. “No clue, but I doubt it. Won't be the first time they've had to shoot away yao guais and radstags. Either way, we gotta hurry up. They’ll be looking for the ground crew any second now, if we lose our element of surprise, we’ll blow it.”

Adust nods in agreement, and they do a quick check around them to make sure there aren’t anymore Gunners off in the distance that’ll surprise them halfway through the coming firefight. But Adust doesn't see anything and hadn't hear anything while he was out there, and Nick’s sensors don’t pick up anything on the ground either. Which leaves just one way left to go.

( If he makes it through this, it’s one less obstacle in his path.

One step closer to finding out what’s happened to his son. )

The lift is sturdy and strong when they finally pile onto it, and thankfully well maintained enough that it doesn’t make much of a sound when it starts lifting them higher. It’s almost a nice feeling, being lifted from the ground, slowly like this. Gives them a decent view of the land before them too, though all it does is remind Adust of a world that once was, the world he belonged to before he woke up in a different time. He shoves the thought back, hard, into his mental vault. He doesn’t have time to give into hopeless rumination, right now. He has a job to do, his child to find, and two backs to watch. He can’t be distracted.

Still. It’s hard to believe that he used to ride in cars down this road, before, when they finally arrive at the top. Concrete cracked everywhere, some parts of it fallen and crumbling, and he vaguely wonders about the structural integrity of the whole thing before he realizes, offhandedly, why MacCready’d had instructed him and Nick to avoid grenades if they could. The Gunner camp is unmistakeable, wooden boards and tyres and heavy sacks, painted on symbols, and the distant sound of chatter, of whirring turrets. So far they haven’t noticed them yet.

Wordlessly, the three of them stay low, moving as quickly and as quietly as they can to get out of the spotlight of the sun, and hide behind something. Scattered across the remnants of the giant are vehicles of all types, rusted and unusable shells of what they used to be, walking mini-nukes if people were careless with their bullets. Adust doesn’t waste time to lead them behind the cover of an abandoned bus, MacCready and Nick following after, and he’s both grateful for the lack of gunshots going after them so far, and also for the fact that these buses are here, because it provides an easy idea.

“I think I can get a few shots from the roof of this thing.” Adust whispers, quick and low as he glances up at the roof of the metal vehicle. It still looks plenty sturdy. “I can take out the turrets from there.”

Beside him, the lights in MacCready’s eyes seem to come on, and he nods quickly. “Nick and I’ll take the closer distance. Need help getting on that thing?”

“I got it.” Nick immediately offers, moving forward. It makes sense, anyway — Nick is a synth, and could probably lift a car on his own if he really, really tried.

Spidery metal fingers link together with ones covered in fake skin, and Adust doesn’t waste time to take a step. Admittedly, he’d sort of underestimated just  _how_  strong Nick Valentine is, because the boost that comes after pushes him so far forward he almost scrambles right back off, but he finds his footing in time and pushes himself up on his elbows onto the rusty metal roof, crawling forward as quietly as he can without jostling anything. So far, so good. There aren’t any bullets going for his head just yet.

He preps his sniper rifle, getting his sights on everyone he can while MacCready and Nick prepare below, himself too far up to hear anything beyond fast whispers of discussion. Adust takes note of who he can — two turrets, from what he can see and hear. One assaultron guarding the main lift, which makes him even more glad that they’d decided against using it. And what makes his stomach sink a little, is when he counts not three, or five, but  _ten_  Gunners, including Winlock and Barnes, and what looks like a suit of power armour in the back.

On their side, he watches as Valentine moves forward and to the side, taking cover behind one of the rusted cars a little closer towards the Gunner camp. MacCready’s on his other side, peeking out from just over the front of a heap of crashed metal, before looking up at Adust. Blue eyes serious, intense, and prepared for a firefight. Ready.

“What’s your count?” MacCready asks, voice just loud enough to be audible to Adust.

“Ten Gunners. Two turrets. One assaultron.” Adust replies, trying to keep his voice just as low. “There’s power armour in the back.”

“Nick’s got eyes on the assaultron, I’ll back him up. Take out the turrets first, and whoever you can after, we can deal with the power armour later if it comes to it.” MacCready instructs, turning towards the camp. And then, those blue eyes turn back to Adust, and he smiles, in a way that is dangerously, and contagiously,  _ready_. “Hey. Your turn to watch my back.”

And just then, just there, for a half second, Adust almost forgets their chances. He almost forgets that they’re outnumbered, outgunned, outmanned, that it’s going to be thirteen hostiles against three. Because for that brief moment, MacCready sounds so  _sure_ , so firm and determined, calm and prepared, slipping into a leader’s mantle without them really realizing. He’s seen this before, Adust realizes. Has been there all the while.

But now, of all times, it’s appreciated more than ever.

He knows, though, that he’s always had MacCready’s back. They’ve had to watch out for each other to be able to work together, to survive better. And now, they’ve all got each other’s backs, himself and MacCready and Valentine. They’ll have to, if they want to come out of this on top, if they want to come out of this  _alive_. So Adust takes in a deep breath, takes what confidence he can from MacCready’s tone and command, and nods, firm. Closes his hands around his sniper rifle. Puts his gaze through the scope, and aims.

 

* * *

 

 

The second his first bullet strikes a turret right at it’s core and rocks the road beneath them with it’s explosion, chaos  _erupts_.

Adust can already hear the surprised, then angry, cries from the Gunners, and just like everyone’s told him already, they’re definitely more organized than any chem-addled raider or burly supermutant. They don’t waste time to get behind cover themselves, firing shots from behind good cover. Further ahead he hears the dangerous sound of an assaultron detecting hostiles, and MacCready’s already started shooting at the Gunners he can see, ducking through a hail of bullets to get closer, shots just narrowly missing. Adust doesn’t waste time, sucking in a deep breath and firing two more shots into the next turret, hitting it at it’s core and sending the whole thing up in a blast of flames, sending it’s nearby Gunners off guard for a second and giving MacCready a slight window, rifle bullets and impeccable aim taking down one Gunner already with three shots to the chest.

Below, the assaultron is already charging it’s way towards Valentine, almost exclusively targeting him. Nick’s firing unrelenting shots from the new laser rifle into the assaultron, doing  _some_  damage, but the robot keeps barrelling on in like a tank, firing it’s own shots that definitely hit  _something_  if Nick’s pained cry is anything to go by, and then the two robots meet halfway and the assaultron swings it’s massive arms and  _launches_  Nick sideways, slamming him against the same bus that Adust is —  _oh, shit —_

He gets rolled off the top of the bus, hitting the concrete and he’s grateful for the gloves, or he’d have scraped his hand up something nasty. As it is, he doesn’t have time to worry about it — the bullets come whizzing past his head and so do red, glaring lines of laserfire, and he hurriedly crawls to the nearest cover where MacCready was earlier. The man himself seems occupied as is, shooting from behind the rusted shell of a corvega and dodging bullets at the same time, not doing damage so much as he’s just holding fire.

On the other side, he sees Nick get up from the ground, barely missing two shots from the assaultron, and just able to duck and roll and pull out his old, trusty pistol — the laser one must’ve dropped when he got slammed into the vehicle — and fire it into the robot, right as it turns, swings, and catches Nick right under the jaw, broadsiding him across the face and sending him flying across the road, panic spiking through Adust. The detective doesn’t rise again, and then the assaultron casts it’s sights on  _him._

He scrambles to his feet, laserfire catching and grazing his leg and  _oh, fuck, it burns_ , but he manages to hit the cover of the corvega before the Gunner’s laserfire catches him too. It’s only a temporary relief, though, because the assaultron is  _still_  charging towards him, and he barely gets to scramble for his gun when a strong metal arm swings and connects to his arm and there’s an audible, painful  _crack_  of something in his arm and chest that should  _not_  sound like that and suddenly he’s skidding across rough tarred road, coming dangerously close to the edge of the interchange, more than one thing broken and leg singed. Adrenaline’s keeping him from feeling the worst of the pain, but adrenaline won’t stop the assaultron that’s coming closer, and Adust’s rifle’s skidded further ahead without him.  _Fuck_.

The assaultron’s still charging towards him, and he wonders for a second if he’ll actually die like this. Of course, it only lasts for a second, because in the next second he hears a sharp whistle, and suddenly MacCready’s fire turns to his direction, firing shots into the assaultron that sends smoke coming out of its chassis. But it’s not enough to end it, and it still has it’s eyes on Adust, and Adust just barely registers  _panic_  as the temporary diversion of attention sends two shots of laserfire right at MacCready’s chest and sending him to the ground.

But that turn of attention, those few seconds where the assaultron’s focus had changed, is all that’s needed. Because Nick  _fucking_  Valentine comes rushing up out of nowhere and, with all of the strength he has,  _slams_  his whole body into the assaultron, sending it tipping and careening over the edge, falling down to the earth below and  _crashing_ , before exploding half a second later. Adust barely has the mind to grab the back of Nick’s shirt with his good arm before the detective goes down along with it, yanking him back behind the cover of the corvega. Off to the side, the chain of relief is completed as he sees MacCready get back up, dashing forward behind the cover of tyres, shirt singed through enough to show the dull shine of his plated inner shirt.  _Thank god_.

“That was,” Adust manages, breathless, partially from the sheer awe of the action and also from the  _pain_  radiating off his sides, “Really stupid.”

Nick, despite the fact Adust can see one arm and half his body is  _definitely_  bent in a way that shouldn’t be and singed, manages a tired laugh. “Fighting Gunners is really stupid, kid, but here we are. Quick, I need a gun, mine got lost after  _that_  firey metal dame sent me flying.”

Nick’s sense of humour is relieving, at least, and it’s enough to give Adust the energy to rummage through the pack still firmly secured and strapped across his body, pulling out the shotgun he’d bought from Arturo earlier, whatever shotgun shells he has, and a stimpak that he stabs into his side and arm once Nick’s got the former two and goes to join MacCready, hissing at the pain but grateful as it knits, even more grateful that at least whatever’s been broken hadn’t been displaced from impact. The rest of the fight will be a bitch, but adrenaline will cover what the stimpak doesn’t.

His leg still hurts, but it’s not bad enough that he can’t run, and he forces himself back on his feet, dashing forward to grab his sniper rifle that’s fallen way too far away, dodging the firefight before running and dodging his way to where MacCready is, Valentine not too far behind, hidden behind cover and trying to hold off the Gunners.

“Damn it, they won’t let up! I’ll be out of bullets before they will.” MacCready grunts as Adust all but drops beside him. The dull shine of the light plating under his outershirt and duster is a relieving sight still. “Hey, you okay?”

“I hate assaultrons.” Is all he can manage, and the flash of blue eyes and the twitch of a smile is enough to make Adust catch his breath, moving to fire two shots into a Gunner woman’s shoulder and chest, sending them down but not dead yet. He ducks back down to avoid the laserfire going over his head. “What about you?”

“’m fine, just need to get these fu — frickin’ Gunners off my back!” MacCready grunts in response, turning over his shoulder to line up a good shot and fire at one who’s popped around the corner. The bullet hits them straight in the head, and MacCready’s face looks mildly triumphant, before a stray gunshot forces him to duck back down. “But it’s not gonna matter if we don’t get  _in_  there. So long as they’re lined up against us like this, we’re at a stalemate until one of us runs out of ammo, and I’m willing to place a  _whole_  lot of caps to bet it won’t be them.”

And it’s true. So far, they’re doing enough to just hold them off, but juggling the assaultron and fending off the coming laserfire’s meant that they haven’t gotten that many down yet. They have to find a way into the base and get past the Gunner cover. Beyond the makeshift wooden walls the Gunner’s have made for themselves, Adust spots what looks like the rusted metal top of a bus, or some kind of metal shack. It’ll have to do.

“We have to charge in. Need to get in that bus.” Adust says, watching more laserfire burn bright overhead.

MacCready turns back to look at him, then over to the base, then back at him, before nodding. “Nick and I’ll clear a path, you make sure we don’t die doing that.”

Adust only nods once before taking position again behind the cover of the Corvega, readying his sniper rifle, this time preparing to run. MacCready dashes off, at Nick’s direction, and the shots start firing again at them, barely missing, and Adust holds them off as best he can by shooting at the heads that come up behind the cover. He manages to get one guy down, his head managing a tiny  _yes_ , before he’s running after MacCready and Valentine, dodging off to the side and following them to the inner parts of the base.

Almost immediately they’re greeted by more guns, and Adust hurriedly slides to take cover behind a Gunner barricade and fires his own bullets back. Two Gunners who were shooting at them before go straight for MacCready and Nick, one firing and the other — the one Adust had shot but hadn’t taken down — running forward with a knife. Nick blows an alarmingly massive hole into the Gunner with the rifle —  _Arturo was right_ , Adust manages to think —  but the one with the knife is swinging at alarmingly fast speeds, and it catches at MacCready’s arm and shoulder, judging by the pained noise. Adust can’t help, too busy aiming for the Gunners in the distance, but MacCready handles it himself, raising the butt of his rifle right as the Gunner thrusts the knife forward, and it sinks into the soft meat of MacCready’s inner arm, but the butt of the rifle comes down just as hard, knocking the Gunner out cold.

 _Five down, five to go_ , Adust notes in his head, and he sucks in a breath before running over to where MacCready is, dodging behind another wooden wall. Nick doesn’t waste time to stand guard and draw the gunfire while he attends to the wound — which is really bleeding quite a bit, and staining MacCready’s green sleeves an ugly red, the man’s face contorted in pain. Adust doesn’t waste time to pull out a stimpak and put it in MacCready’s good hand.

“You know what I have to do.” Adust says. Hopes how apologetic he is shows through his voice, because this will  _hurt_.

“Get on with it, we’re not done yet!” MacCready only hisses, and uncaps the syringe with his teeth.

Adust gets one hand firm on MacCready’s arm, holding it up, and with his other hand, he firmly wraps his hand around the handle of the knife and  _yanks._

The amount of blood that comes out is almost scary, and MacCready makes an agonizing noise through gritted teeth and eyes squeezed shut, but has enough of a good mind to jab the stimpak into his arm, Adust immediately helping to push the plunger before quickly removing it. Watching a wound like that heal, skin and muscle and sinew knitting together — it isn’t fun to watch, definitely, but it’s  _healing_  and the bleeding’s already stopped, which is great, especially considering that they’re  _still_  mid-firefight.

MacCready’s face is a worrying, clammy pale, and Adust worriedly gives him a few shakes and some wakening pats on the cheek. “Hey, hey, stay with us, come on. We still need you.”

“This, this fu — ggg _ghhhhhhh_ , this sucks.” MacCready groans weakly, but moves to sit up straighter anyway, wobbly. 

Laserfire catches on Nick’s arm, and he hisses, pulling away, turning to look at the both of them. Adust realizes, briefly, that Nick’s lost his hat somewhere in the fray, and that metal arm of his is absolutely bent out of shape — but he can still hold the shotgun with it and grip, so it can’t be unsaveable, at least. “’s much as I want to let all of us catch a breather, I’m afraid that ain’t in the cards right now, and I only have so much ammo left. MacCready, are you sure you can continue?”

MacCready manages a tired snort. Still clammy, but he’s making himself stand, albeit on wobbly legs. Takes in deep breathes that seem to at least be bringing some colour back to his face. 

“We’re dead if we try and leave anyway.” MacCready grits out, peering out over the edge of the wood wall. “The bus isn’t too far off. All we have to worry about is five more of these douchebags.”

“Except three of those douchebags are now fully prepared for us, one has a laser rifle with deadly accuracy, and the other’s in power armour.” Adust notes.

“Take out the three lower Gunners first.” Nick points out, right as laserfire barely misses his head, and he starts talking faster. “MacCready and I will draw their fire, you get to the bus and get us support. MacCready?”

“On it.” The merc grunts, and while he’s still pale and sweating, Adust’s relieved to see at least some colour back in his face. He watches MacCready tuck the bloodied knife into his belt, secured, before turning back to Valentine, who nods.

They have to work quick, there’s no time to plan out anymore, and MacCready and Nick duck out into the firefight, MacCready stumbling but still managing to throw some shots in the right direction, Adust seizing the opportunity of distraction to quickly duck to the side and run up, staying low, ignoring the burning flare of pain in his leg and the incredible soreness of his arm and side. A Gunner or two spot him and aim fire at him, but they don’t get to fire shots, with Nick taking the chance of the distraction and uppercutting them with the butt of the shotgun and MacCready shooting the other in the leg. Adust’s can feel a small weight lifted off his system as he ducks through Nuka Cola machines and a metal shack with beds, and practically skids by the bus and crawls inside.

He doesn’t waste time. The bus is thankfully empty, save for a skeleton or two that he can’t bother being bothered about, and he immediately heads to the end of it, crawling up on one of the seats and positioning himself by the broken window. His heart  _drops_  when he realizes he only has a handful of bullets left for his sniper rifle, realizes he only has this many chances or all he’ll have is his pipe rifle. So long as no one gets into this bus with him or is stupid enough to try and blow up it’s nuclear core, he’ll be fine. He  _hopes_.

Nick and MacCready have already taken one Gunner down between the three they’re trying to fend off. In the distance he can already see Winlock tromping up in  _power armour_ , Barnes at his side, and Adust holds the rifle up and takes a deep breath because if he doesn’t help MacCready and Nick out  _right now_ , there’s going to be more than they can handle.

With the exhale he squeezes a bullet into the skull of a Gunner that’s been firing at MacCready, sending them down with a spray of blood and caving knees, right as MacCready nails another one in the gut. For a second, Adust wonders if MacCready even knows where he is, but then blue eyes flicker to him for just a second, followed my a dangerous, though exhausted, smirk that makes Adust’s resolve harden.

Now there’s just two.

Nick and MacCready duck for cover behind one of the metal shacks, the Gunner logo artistically smeared in white paint over it, and Barnes’ singsong voice calls out over the sudden quiet.

“Well ain’t  _this_  a surprise.” Barnes’ voice calls out. He’s standing behind Winlock, on an upper platform, Winlock standing as an effective barrier between him and the other two. “What’d we say ‘bout not operatin’ on Gunner territory?”

“Sorry, Barnes, guess I just mistook this place for a pisshole.” MacCready’s voice calls back, strained but obviously taking joy in the mockery. “I ever tell you guys that you’re crap at decorating?”

“Real cute, MacCready.” Winlock snorts. “Tell you what, we’ll make this place a little prettier, once we  _hang your corpse_  on it. That, and all your  _friends_.”

And Adust has his sights set on Winlock, he does. A clear shot. Once the tin can is out of the way, three against one on Barnes will be the easiest thing they’ve done all day. He takes his breath, readies his finger on the trigger, and exh —

A shot rings out right as he breathes out and laserfire hits  _right at his shoulder_ , and Adust can’t help the pained sound that rips from his throat as his shot fires off-mark, hitting metal instead and ricocheting somewhere unimportant. He isn’t bleeding — laserfire cauterizes it as it goes past — but it hurts something fucking  _fierce_ , that laser gun must be enhanced or something because the world’s tipping and he slams into the floor of the bus, and he can hear Barnes’ ugly laughter as the metal footsteps ring  _louder_ , and MacCready’s pained yell as something slams into something else.

“Damn it!” He hears MacCready yell, and Adust struggles to straighten back up, get his hands back on the rifle, fuck the pain in his shoulder he has to offer support,  _now_.

In the twenty seconds it’d taken him to get off of the floor and back up, Winlock has MacCready effectively isolated from Valentine, had knocked him across the tar and he sees MacCready getting up, stumbling but managing to get behind cover while firing shots at Winlock that connect, but only dent the power armour. Barnes is running over, firing at Nick too often for Nick to offer MacCready any help, and one of Barnes’ shots hit Nick too, once, twice, once worryingly in the gut, and suddenly Nick’s shirt and coat’s being stained with blue, blue, blue.

 _Shit_ , is all Adust can think of, and that’s all he can spare the energy to think of, because this is just like before, just like the battlefield, if he doesn’t keep his head or his aiming straight then they’re  _dead_ , and while MacCready’s got Winlock in the power armour, Nick is stumbling back and looking like the closest thing to  _active bleeding_  that a synth can get, so Adust ignores the burning in his shoulder and the pain of everywhere else, lines up his shot, and fires.

The bullet finds Barnes in the upper right corner of his chest, and the Gunner roars in pain, firey gaze turning straight to Adust, and Adust squeezes another shot, but Barnes tells, the bullet misses by a hair, and Barnes raises his own laser weapon and fires again, a few shots thankfully missing and hitting the side of the bus instead, but one manages to catch Adust in the same spot he’d hit Barnes. And it  _hurts_ , it fucking hurts, the weapon  _has_  to be enhanced, it punches through him and swoops the air out of his lungs and spreads through his chest like  _fire_ , but he has to ignore it, hope and pray that it hasn’t hit anything vital, and gets back on the trigger right as Nick stumbles back into the fray with the shotgun, still bleeding coolant bright and blue onto the ground.

Barnes whips around just in time for Nick to slam the end of the gun up the side of Barnes’ face, scraping it something  _hard_ , before whipping his elbow straight for Barnes’ gut. The Gunner manages to dodge it, elbowing Nick right back in the chest, but Nick’s got no lungs to knock the air out of, so it’s a fraction of a second before Nick’s grabbing Barnes’ firing arm, twists it back and far enough that there’s a  _snap_  and a loud cry, and Adust seizes the moment, takes his aim, and squeezes the trigger with a  _crack,_ firing his last bullet.

The inner parts of Barnes’ head splatters against the metal wall of the shack, and the Gunner goes down for good.

“ _Barnes_!!” Winlock cries out, and Adust whips over to where the man in power armour is, and it’s a rookie mistake for the Gunner to turn his back on MacCready, who emerges from his cover and fires two straight shots into the rubbery, soft inner seams between the power armour pieces, and Winlock yells as the bullets pierce through what Adust sees is his left arm, “You  _motherfucker_!!”

And Adust doesn’t know if MacCready says anything back, because Winlock moves  _surprisingly fast_  for a man encased in metal, closing the short distance between him and MacCready before he nor Adust can react and  _punches_.

And power armour fists deliver.

MacCready’s skidding across the concrete, hat and rifle dropped and far from where MacCready can get it, and Winlock’s moving in closer and looking  _pissed_. What happens next happens fast, almost too fast; the man grabs MacCready before he can get up properly, and then one power armour clad fist grabs MacCready by the hair and  _slams_  his head into the asphalt, again and again and again in a matter of seconds, and then the hand moves to grip MacCready’s  _throat —_

And Adust fires his shots.

It doesn’t hurt much, because he’s had to resort to his pipe rifle, essentially a fucking  _pea shooter_  when it comes to shooting people encased in armour, but it’s enough to make Winlock turn around, burning  _rage_  in his eyes, and —

There’s an ugly  _snarl_ , the sound of a choked syllable, and then a wet gurgle.

Adust sees MacCready, leaning forward, looking dizzy and disoriented. Back of his head bleeding, neck already mottled blue and green and yellow, and Winlock kneeling on the ground, clumsy metal hands clawing at his throat where a familiar knife is sticking out, scrabbling, eyes wide and mouth gurgling blood before it all just... Stops.

The interchange goes quiet, and all that can be heard is the joined sounds of their heavy breathing. Just then. Just that. And then,

“We did it.” MacCready says. Voice raspy, abused, before looking at Adust with absolute, delirious  _victory_  in his eyes, “We  _did it!!”_

Naturally, there isn’t really much... Energy, to go around whooping and cheering, but MacCready’s laughing through his choked throat and about two seconds from falling back onto the asphalt, and Adust finds himself hunched over through his own pain, but grinning beneath the mask, feeling the thrill of victory running through his system. He hasn’t felt this ecstatic for coming out alive from a gunfight since the Forged, and even  _that_  hadn’t been as stressful, and they had  _fire_.

Then again, they had much more space to work with.

He’s just about to drop his gun and hit the floor and maybe get some stims into himself when he hears a gurgled laugh from the metal shack, and a cough.

“Mighty fine news,” Nick Valentine pipes up, voice warbling, “Now if someone could grab me a roll of duct tape, that’d be swell.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next half hour is nothing but damage control among themselves. They only have three stims to spare, the few in MacCready’s duster shattered when he got thrown across the road earlier, and Adust takes one for the holes he has in his body and MacCready takes two, for his neck, his bleeding head, and the concussion he most definitely has. Nick worries them for all of five minutes, parts of him starting to smoke from the loss of coolant, but a quick hunt across the shacks grants them two whole bottles of coolant and three rolls of duct tape, and they patch him up right as rain, though all their clothes could say otherwise.

He doesn’t realize how much time’s passed until he checks his pip-boy, later, the evening sun lower in the sky. Adust is resting at the doorway of one of the metal shacks, halfway through bandaging up his leg — there aren’t any stims left for the bad graze the laser shot had given him, but it’ll be fine with bandages and dressing for now — when Nick and MacCready come back, the synth stripped of his coat thanks to all the the wears and tears it has, and MacCready whistling to himself.

“Perimeters clear.” Nick says, metal arm looking bent out of shape and scraped, but otherwise no worse for the wear after the coolant scare, “And the sky’s turning dark. Doesn’t look like a radstorm, but no one’s gonna come up here through the night and in the rain, so we should be safe stayin’ in here till morning.”

“Found enough food to feed a settlement, if you’re up for BlamCo and brahmin.” MacCready grins, looking all too proud for a guy with blood stains all the way down the collar of his shirt and a quarter of the back of his duster.

Adust smiles, beneath the gasmask. Today’s been an accomplishment, for sure. Not his hardest battle, nor his bloodiest, but they’d come too close more times than he was comfortable with. He’ll take this victory as it is.

“Your arm, Nick?” He asks, finishing up his bandage.

Nick winces and moves it a little, before shaking his head and moving to crudely roll his sleeves up. “It’s seen better days, but whatever that assaultron hit, it probably snagged whatever pain sensors I have. Can’t feel a thing, though it’s still got grip, so that’s a blessing. I’ll probably ask Arturo to take a gander at it and hammer it out when we get back to Diamond City.”

At least they’re all intact and in one piece, so that’s the biggest relief. He’ll be sore for a couple more days, but enough rest and med-x when they head back to Diamond City should iron out the worst of things. He sets aside the bandage as MacCready takes a seat on the divider across from him, looking weary but extremely pleased. It’s a good look on him.

“I can’t believe we  _did_  that. Never thought I’d get those bastards off my back.” MacCready laughs, voice only mildly less rough after the stim. “I... Really gotta thank you both. You’re not too shabby, Valentine.”

Nick rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face betrays any actual taken offence. “How kind, MacCready. I’m just glad traders will get to pass through here without problem for a little while, ‘least until the next unsavoury group.”

“Gunners should be sending a runner from HQ pretty soon, but it probably won’t be for a couple more days. Should be fine.” MacCready grins, stretching, before turning to look at Adust. “By the way, I, uh. Found the terminal over by the wall barrier we faced when we first got up here. Haven’t cracked it open yet, but i know the password. Do you want to... ?”

The pleasant buzz of a won battle fizzles out, and Adust’s gut grows just a little colder.

Right. Kellogg. Caught up in the heat of battle and then patching everything up and the realization that, now, they can find him... It doesn’t feel as sweet as he thought it would.  _That_  realization in turn only makes something in his chest clench uncomfortably, only makes dread seep through his system because, if he were honest, a small part of him is... Scared. Worried. A part of him thinks that what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Wants to be a coward, and run, run, run.

But he can’t do that. He knows he can’t, because for every thought he has on running away, the more he thinks;  _Jennifer_. The more he thinks  _family_. The more he remembers his old life, the more he remembers that family is everything to him, as always been. Even if Shaun might not know him. Even if Shaun doesn’t think of him as family, if he’s even still okay. Adust needs to, at the very least, find out what’s happened to his child. Their baby.

He needs to do it for Jennifer, and for himself.

Without a word, Adust nods, and they get up to head over. Ignores the throbbing ache down the whole of the left side of his body and his leg, trying not to limp too much now that the adrenaline’s worn down. Nick’s right, with the coming storm — there’s the smell of rain in the air, and things are dark, and the terminal glows faintly in the distance as they approach it.

They climb to it, and the screen illuminates MacCready’s face in pale greens as the man boots it up and starts typing in the password, pressing steadily key-by-key.

“ _Bakerstinydick_. Really.  _That’s_  the password?” Nick deadpans, behind him, sounding close to facepalming. “Very mature.”

MacCready snorts as the screen boots to all the latest entries, stepping aside so Adust can take his place. “Sergeant Baker’s the reason Winlock and Barnes got taken out of the Combat Zone and thrown here. They didn’t want to leave.”

Adust tunes out the rest of the conversation beside him while he scrolls through the entries. There are a few he skims past; ‘Cleaning up Quincy’ and ‘Notice: No Psycho’ and ‘Frags Banned’ among other things, but finally stops when he hits an entry under the name ‘Watchlist’. Hitting the button, a list of names unfurl, and Adust moves to go through the list.

Some of the names he sees, he’s already taken out himself, including the raider Slag from Saugus that he and MacCready had taken down together, which in itself makes him just a _little_ smug. Other names he hasn’t, the entries usually ending with what to expect from the hostile and what actions should be taken, and where everything is. He’s tempted to hunt down an empty holotape to copy all of this into, maybe to help out Preston and the Minutemen, when MacCready appears over his shoulder.

“Hey, wait just a second. Oh my God.” MacCready grins, pointing at the screen. “I can’t believe I got a shoutout.”

Nick leans in closer, peers at the screen.

“ _Robert Joseph MacCready. Dangerous little rat, wanted for fleeing and stealing from Gunners, ex-Gunner conscript. Dangerous from a distance._ ” Nick reads out, looking over a little. “ _Location unknown, currently on the move with the ‘Vault Dweller’ with a gasmask, allied with the Minutemen and equally dangerous. Kill on sight unless in Goodneighbour._ ”

“Aw, they really  _do_  care.” MacCready coos, straightening back, grinning smugly. “You got a shoutout too, Ads.”

Adust isn’t quite sure whether he should be laughing, unsure if he should feel flattered or just uncomfortable, with some very dangerous people after his back. “They called you a little rat.”

“Probably Winlock. Barnes’ got way more colourful names for me. I’ll give you a hint, it rhymes with ‘puntface’.” MacCready snorts, before suddenly pausing, then looking closer at the screen. “Wait, go down.”

Adust does, and he blood almost freezes when the name pops up. The name he’s been looking for. The name he just came all the way out here and nearly  _died_  for.

“ _Conrad Kellogg. Mercenary, employers unknown, maybe the Institute. Last seen alone at Fort Hagen, injured, but still able to handle a gun. Hasn’t moved out, seems to be staying there long-term._ ” Nick reads out, slow. “ _Highest level threat. Do not approach or engage. Avoid areas around Fort Hagen until further notice. Runners should form new paths to avoid it for supply lines._ ”

“Fort Hagen it is, then.” MacCready breathes. “You know where that is?”

“ _I_ do. Ain’t that far out, but...” Valentine answers, before a pause. “... Adust? Are you sure you’re ready to go after him?”

He’s not. If he were completely, wholly honest, he’s  _not_. The Gunners are the most dangerous of the unaligned forces in the Commonwealth, and they’re tacking Kellogg as the highest level of threat. Adust’s served in the military, sure, and his sniping skills are at least on the upper scale of pretty good, but this man has a  _reputation_ , and this is the wasteland. Things are more dangerous out here than they ever were when Adust was on the pre-war battlefield. He doesn’t know if he’ll come out of this  _alive_ , or even in one piece, if he tries.

“Yeah.” Adust breathes, finally. Takes a step back, straightens up. Breathes and pretends it isn’t ragged. “I... Yeah.”

Nick nods, in understanding. Glowing eyes surprisingly gentle. “We’ll head back to Diamond City in the morning. You two need to rest a couple more days. Then we’ll see about hunting down Kellogg. Alright?”

Adust nods, slowly. Absorbing the information that they  _finally_  have the name and location of his best friend’s killer, of his son’s kidnapper. It comes with it’s own brand of relief, excitement, and dread.

A hand on his back startles him out of his own thoughts, though, and Adust turns to find those same blue eyes. As sure as ever. Confident.

“We’ll find him.” MacCready says. Sounding, more than ever, like it’s a concrete fact. “We’re going to  _kick his ass_  ten ways to Sunday, and we’ll find Shaun.”

And maybe Adust is just tired. Maybe he’s exhausted, and just reaching out, just grasping for something to hold onto, some kind of strength that he can lean on —

For the moment, he can believe it.

 

* * *

 

 

Nick’s prediction is right, at least. By rain starts coming down lightly by four thirty, and by five, it’s a downpour. The rain comes down in sheets, wind rustling the dead trees below them, and beyond the space of the interchange, there’s no noise. It’s one of the rare few moments where the Commonwealth is quiet, no sound of stray gunshots, or screams, or growls. Just the rain, and the three of them, making do for the night.

It’s... Calming. A welcome change from the high-paced, adrenaline fueled portion of the day, from the blood and the firefights. Adust had always loved rain, before the world ended, so long as he was never caught in it — it’s perfect napping weather, it keeps the world quiet, it gives him a chance to just  _be_. Now... Now it reminds him of Jennifer. Reminds him of what they had, reminds him that she isn’t here anymore to enjoy the rain with him. And it  _hurts_.

But beyond that, if he tries, _really_ tries, he can still grasp at it. The calm of the rain, the soothing, in all it’s raw falling. And if he focuses out in the distance, focuses on just the sound, it still gives him the same effect, as he stands over the edge of the interchange, gasmask tucked safely into his pack, wind rustling his hair. Chilly, fresh air coming in his lungs, without the stuffiness of the mask. Raindrops on bruised skin. Slowing down time. 

Giving him space to  _breathe._

At least the wind isn’t too strong, nothing harsh enough to bring more than light sprays of moisture in. Eventually (and thankfully) he doesn’t get too much time to wallow or ruminate. They have to make do with the little daylight they have left and start lighting up a few of the lanterns around the base, and once that’s done, Nick gets to work starting up a fire to cook with and stay warm around while he and MacCready split up to take either side of the base and scrounge up whatever they can, be it food or weapons or caps.

By the time night fully falls, they’ve found enough weapons, ammo, and medical aid to fetch them a hefty heap of caps, not even adding on the actual bags of caps they’d found. An easy eight hundred, shiny and cool. When he hauls it over to MacCready the first time, the man grins so wide Adust barely realizes he’s smiling himself. They divvy up the ammo and keep everything else in their packs, though not everything fits, so they pick whatever fetches the most value and cram it down.

By six, it’s outright storming out, and Adust grows grateful for the fire Nick’s started up. The three of them gather around it, he and MacCready nursing warm cans of mac an’ cheese with bits of brahmin inside, Nick sitting without a reason to eat, so he smokes quietly instead, letting the wind take the smoke away. MacCready’s finishes his food faster, voraciously packing it away like he won’t find another meal tomorrow, while Adust finishes slower, pacing himself, enjoying the warmth of the food and the fire before him, illuminating the three of them in oranges and gold. It’s fine, anyway. There’s enough food and drink to feed an entire base of Gunners. They don’t have to worry about food and water tonight. It’s a privilege they’ll gladly accept.

Adust’s  _especially_  glad for all the extra clothes the Gunner base provides, because he spends the rest of dinner shamelessly wearing three jackets on top of a couple of shirts, sitting cross legged and huddling as close to the fire as he can without actual self-immolation so he can get warm. MacCready’s doing the same, albeit a little less close, still wearing everything he was but with a few more jackets on top of it. None of it matches, but it’s fine. This is the wasteland, where fashion’s made up and the clothes don’t matter.

It’s a nice dinner, in any case. MacCready shares stories about his time under the Gunners — the better ones, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by when they broach any subject that requires actual combat. Nick in himself is a relaxing, calm presence, and he smokes steadily through an entire pack of cigarettes in the time they sit around the fire. It’s fine. They have plenty more scrounged up from the base, and it isn’t like Nick has any lungs to ruin. Adust stays mostly quiet, throughout the conversation, content to just listen and enjoy what peace he can get from his weary mind in a new world.

Once they’re done, MacCready puts out the fire while Nick lights a few new ones in the barrels prepared around the beds, so they’ll keep warm tonight. Offers to keep watch for the entire night, despite Adust’s hesitance.

“Not like this old synth needs to sleep anyhow.” Nick points out. “And you two need all the rest you can get ‘fore we head back tomorrow.”

Fair enough.

Nick walks off, after, doing another perimeter check and setting up some traps in the lifts in case someone does end up trying their luck, and MacCready disappears to... Somewhere. Probably off to do an inventory check, if Adust’s guess is right. It leaves him alone, for awhile, so he ends up taking a seat by one of the tables across from the Nuka Cola machine, under the shade of a useless umbrella, a barrel fire close by to keep his toes warm. The cold’s settling deep in his bones, so he’s taken one of the blankets from the beds, wrapped it around himself as he settles in his chair, knees drawn up like a child as he rests his head on top of them, silver hair long undone after dinner, and spilling over like a curtain.

In the distance he sees a couple of radstag running, probably trying to get out of the rain, the two headed creatures disappearing between the trees until they disappear completely from view. Adust can see a few settlements from up here, in the distance. Tiny specks of light, if he squints, of many lanterns in single, isolated spots, through the sheets of rain coming down. Some of these settlements he’s personally helped, even, either taking out raiders or mutants or ghouls, or just helping rebuild. The latter is his favourite. Keeps his mind and hands occupied, and keeps everyone fed.

He wonders if Shaun likes it, out here.

Adust knows, now, he’s been in that vault longer than he’d thought, after Kellogg had... Had done his thing. There must be at least a ten year gap, in the time where he’d been defrosted and then frozen all over again before finally being spat out. Has to be, if the reports from Diamond City are anything to go by, or the drawings that Adust still has carefully folded in his pack.

He wonders if Kellogg really had raised his boy. Wonders if he still is now. Wonders _why._ And even if Adust finds them both, even if Adust finds Shaun and gets to take him back, would Shaun even want to? He’s been raised by Kellogg this entire time. Raised in the wasteland, used to the water and the animals and the danger. Probably doesn’t even know who Adust  _is_. And if Kellogg, by any chance, has taken care of Shaun this whole time, if he’s managed to keep Shaun safe and healthy and content for whatever reason, then... Does Adust even have any right to take Shaun back?

“ — llo? Hey, you with me?”

Adust blinks back to reality, looking up with wide eyes. MacCready’s standing over him, hat throwing shadows over his face, frowning, brow cocked. And in his hand a bottle of... Wine?

“You were spacing out.” MacCready says, shaking his head, moving away, taking a seat at the table before flickering his glance back to Adust. “Uh. Unless you want me to leave you alone?”

Adust shakes his head, at that. “It’s fine,” he says, because being left alone with his thoughts like this is only going to end in tears and he's already tired as is, “What’s the wine for?”

MacCready grins a little, at that. “We just took out an  _entire base of Gunners_  in a single day. Don’t know about you, but that counts as celebratory drinking grounds for me. And you said you’re a wine person, right?”

Adust finds his brows raising at that. Surprised. “You remembered?”

The look on MacCready’s face — Adust has to stifle a smile at it, hiding it on his knees, because it looks almost  _offended_.

“Uh,  _yeah_ , of course I remember.” MacCready says, frowning a little. “Hey, this is the good stuff here. Or at least, that’s what they said. I already opened it.”

“We don’t have any glasses, though.” Adust points out.

“Ever heard of the bottlemouth technique? You take the bottle. And then you put it to your mouth.”

 _That_  startles a small laugh out of him, and MacCready’s answering grin is infectious. The bottle gets pushed over to him, and Adust takes a moment to hold it up to the light of his pip-boy. The label is so old that he can hardly make out anything at all, save for the odd few letters and scratches of what may have been a pretty image, two hundred years ago. He has no idea what kind of wine this is, if it’s even still wine, or even if it’s any good to drink.

And then he remembers that he’s battling insects the size of footballs and crabs the size of small cars on a regular basis, and puts the rim of the bottle against his lips.

The taste is... Indescribable, as it hits his tongue, makes his eyes widen as the bottle leaves his mouth. There’s about a hundred things in here that he can taste, vaguely, just hints of burnt sugar, of honey, of orange bitters and hazelnuts, treacle and cinnamon, and so many others that seem familiar but he can’t identify. He has no idea if it’s actually everything he’s tasting, or whether he’s just imagining it, his tastebuds grasping onto memories of the old world.

“This is...” He says, trying to find words and generally failing, “... Really,  _really_  well preserved, what — where would you even — “

MacCready shrugs at that, reaching over and taking the bottle. “No idea. Winlock and Barnes got it when they passed through Quincy, before the attack. Apparently someone there had a whole storage of pre-war booze. ‘Perfectly preserved’, they said. They got this to celebrate Winlock’s promotion, but, well.  _I_  happened.”

MacCready’s wearing a little smug smirk at that, and Adust finds his own smile twitching upwards. He relaxes a little, watching MacCready put the bottle to his own chapped lips, tilting it upwards and watching the his throat move. Adust can still taste the wine on his own tongue — it  _has_  to be top of the line, even pre-war, to still be tasting this good. Most wines aren’t even meant for aging too long, let alone for two centuries. He’s surprised that there’s such little oxidation and heat damage and radiation in it, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Besides, this is the wasteland. He could be killed any second, from a stray gunshot or a fucking fly. If all they’re doing is drinking incomprehensibly expensive, fancy wine straight from the bottle on top of an interchange, well.

There are worst ways to spend a night in the wastes.

“Damn,” MacCready’s voice comes from beside him, and Adust focuses back only to see MacCready looking at the bottle, like it’s personally impressed him. “This is pretty nice.”

Adust smiles. “Right? I — I couldn’t really afford wine, uh, back then. Pre-war. But Jennifer, her family — they had a whole wine cellar. It was — it was nice.”

“Better than the swill at the Third Rail, that’s for sure.” MacCready snorts, before leaning back, the plastic chair creaking a little under the weight. “But that’s way too low of a standard.”

MacCready takes another swig, but Adust keeps quiet. Saying her name again just makes his throat feels like it’s squeezing in on itself, and he turns his gaze back to the ground, willing away the burning in his eyes and the thought that  _she would’ve loved this, would love to be here_. He does hear the sound of the bottle being pushed back over to him, though, and he doesn’t hesitate to take it and tip it back, taking a big swig of it. Sure, it’s supposed to be a sipping wine, but who’s going to stop him?

It’s a few beats of silence after that, Adust feeling the taste of the wine coat his tongue. Closing his eyes, willing away whatever grief he can, before MacCready speaks up again, piping up just loud enough to hear past the rain.

“Hey. You know I meant it when I said thanks, right? For helping me take care of these guys?”

Adust opens his eyes again, looking over. MacCready’s looking right at him, and those eyes are  _bright_ , intense, even though the rainclouds are hiding the moon. Sincerity, all over again.

“I mean... It helps me too, you know. With finding Shaun.” Adust replies, grateful, that his voice is more stable than he’d thought it would be. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“You don’t get it. These guys, they... They’re animals. I know I make it sound like it wasn't a big deal, but.” MacCready shakes his head. The look in his eyes going hollow, haunted. “Some of the worst things I’ve ever done, I did for the Gunners.”

Adust softens his gaze, there. “So it’s not just the target on your back, that made you want to get rid of them. What did they — “

And MacCready shoots him a look, here, that stuns Adust to silence.

“Don’t.” MacCready says. Shakes his head, slowly. “Don’t ask me what they do, or what they made me do. I don't want to have to tell you. And you don't want to know.”

Adust turns back to the ground. Lets it go. He knows that tone, from his old days, pre-war. People who’ve done things they were ashamed of. Things that weigh on your soul. Adust isn't any better — but this is the wasteland, and Adust can’t comprehend what sort of things that entails, because for every joke MacCready makes about running with the Gunners, Adust has seen that spark of regret in the back of those eyes. Memories that are better buried. Not enough to forget, but enough to slip aside, showing just enough to remind you of things you should never do again, mistakes that can’t be forgiven, but can be prevented from happening once more.

For the moment, Adust can really admire MacCready, for that.

“Was just a conscript when I got in. Didn’t stay in long enough to move up in ranks. Which is a  _good_  thing, by the way, because no way in hell were they gonna stick needles in me to tattoo that brahmin sh — that BS on my forehead.” MacCready speaks up again, nursing the bottle. Looking a little less tense, at least. “The Gunners were good for caps, for weapons, but that’s about it. The day I left was one of the best decisions I ever made since I got back to the Commonwealth.”

Adust hums, curiously, at that. “... Did you know? Any of the other Gunners here today?

MacCready shrugs. “Yeah, some, but it’s not like we were friends. Most of ‘em were cruel. Some of the sh — the crap they did was just... I’ve seen nicer raiders. Only made one ‘friend’, when I worked there, and she barely tolerated my ass.”

Adust lifts his head. “And?”

“And she’s probably dead now.” MacCready says. Matter of factly, with only a faint look of unhappiness on his face at it. Lips pursed in a thin line, brows furrowed. “I mean, I don’t know for _sure_. But she hated what they did as much as I did, she was just a way better actor. Tried to bring her with me the day I left, but I almost got caught and she told me to go off alone, said she’d just be dead weight, said she’d be fine. So I did. Didn’t have a choice, they were gaining on me.”

MacCready frowns, here. “Part of me wants to think she’s fine, there. But knowing the Gunners, you never know.”

The news should probably hit harder than it does, but it doesn’t. Just leaves the conversation on a slightly lower note. Loss in the wastes... It’s just normal. It just happens. You live and you lose and every day that passes is a blessing you get, every step you take is a miracle mile. Adust knows this, now. He doesn’t know how long MacCready’s had to deal with it, growing up with it, living it from birth to now.

And more than that, it’s actually  _admirable_ , again. Killing for caps, sure, but it isn’t as if half of the wastes aren’t doing the same for survival. And beyond all that, Adust’s seen MacCready’s own brand of kindness, hidden behind sharp remarks and his own priorities. So much blood on those who live here in the wastes, and MacCready can still laugh, can make _others_ laugh, can still be compassionate, though he never admits to it and never seems so outright. Considerate, even though all his whining and complaining makes it look otherwise. 

Adust knows. He’s seen it. Has had to, living with him for over a month, and MacCready watching Adust wade through the worst parts of his life.

Adust, more than ever, is glad that he has MacCready at his side.

“... Are you planning to leave? After this?” Adust finds himself asking. “I mean. I know I paid you the first time, but everytime after that, it was a mutual deal. You don’t owe me anything. If you wanted to go, I — “

“Hey, I said I’d stick around and watch your back.” MacCready immediately shoots at him, looking again, pretty offended. “I stick to my word, alright? You’ve been watching my back and I’m watching yours. We work  _good_  together. Today should be proof enough. If you  _want_  me to go, you can say the word, and if I wanna scram I’ll keep you updated, but otherwise? I think things are going pretty good. We make a good team.”

Adust... Smiles at that. Feels a small weight, at least, being taken off his chest at how reassuring the statement is, because it’s exactly what he’d thought, earlier today. Exactly how he feels.

“But we’re still splitting the loot, right?” MacCready suddenly pipes up. “50/50 this time, make it even. Doesn’t look like we’ll be hard up for caps as long as we keep running together like this.”

Adust  _has_  to stifle his smile at that. Still the same, then. “Pff. Sure.”

MacCready grins. “Alright, it’s settled. About time you loosened up. See, it wasn’t so hard, was it? I’m not so bad.”

Adust grins right back.

“Hey, not so bad. I’m Adust.”

Silence.

And then,

“You — no, you just — that was so bad. You  _didn’t.”_

And Adust  _has_  to laugh at that, MacCready’s expression is too  _priceless_. 

“Now you know how  _I_  feel.” Adust manages, laughing still, “I’m  _sorry_ , but your jokes are so much worse — “

“That’s f — that’s effin’  _bee ess_  and you know it!” MacCready protests, though there’s a grin on his mouth. “You just made a funny and it  _sucked_.”

Adust only laughs a little more at that, the sound nearly completely muffled by the falling rain, but he still  _feels_  it, and it’s the best he’s felt since he’s left the vault. First time he’s really  _laughed_ , since he lost everything.

The rest of the night passes like this; MacCready trading stories about his run with the Gunners, Adust offering what words he can. Bad jokes traded between the two, soft laughter and ugly sNickers, warmth of the barrel fire keeping the worst of the cold at bay. Overly expensive bottle of wine traded between them, drunken right from the bottle because fuck everything, it’s the wastes. Stomach full, shelter above them, and all of them alive. Comfortable. Safe. Okay.

It’s not the worst way to spend a night in the wastes. Not by far. And when Adust sleeps, later on, in the bed tucked away in the metal shack with MacCready in the bed across from him — it’s the first night in awhile, where he sleeps as soon as his head hits the mattress. For the first night in awhile, the ghost of gunshots and dark hair and freezing cold leaves him be, and allows him a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhnnNANHAHHHH this took awhile and i apologize, but hey, first big chapter in awhile and right on my birthday. i'm terrible at action scenes so bear with me. also i don't know jack diddly about wine, so pretend i do and everything makes sense. actually, just keep that mindset for the rest of this fic and all will be easier
> 
> next chapter might or might not be divided into two maccready pov chapters. depends on how i'll split the subsections up, considering the kellogg thing is pretty big
> 
> every kudos and comment you leave makes them days just that much brighter. on that note, you can follow me and get more adust/mac content over on my [tumblr](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/) and while you're at it, maybe check out [each according to their kind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522938) which is a pretty interesting take on the institute side, and features institute!danse/preston. cheers guys take care gb
> 
> EDIT: 22 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	8. took the car downtown where the lost boys meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they're two bros, chillin' on a rooftop, .5 ft apart cause they're not gay (yet).

The sky is electric blue and yawning over the horizon, milky yellows staining the first hints of daylight, wasteland birds soaring and dipping in fragments of arcs. MacCready has no idea what time it actually is — the watch on his wrist has been perpetually stuck at seven-oh-three as of a few months back, so the accuracy of his timekeeping pretty much only happens about twice a day. All he really knows is that the days are shorter come winter, so it’s either the crack of ass right now, or it’s already mid-morning.

Not that he particularly cares much. They’re not in a rush right now. As it stands, he’s happy to roll over a bit in the bed they’re in — for a little bit, when he woke, he almost thought he was back with the Gunners, almost thought that leaving them and working with Adust was just some weird fever dream, was back in the interchange just like he was last year — but then he’d gotten up, groggy and tired and achy everywhere and propped himself on his elbows and looked around him, and didn’t see a sign of Gunners anywhere. Just the morning barely waking, just the quiet of Mass Pike. It was nice, to wake up to relief instead of dread for a change.

The barrel fire is still going strong, but MacCready’s feet are cold, and he finds that he doesn’t feel too much like going back to sleep for once. Well, whatever. He props himself up to sit proper, wipes the drool from his face with his sleeve, ruffles his hair to look a little less like he’s just gone through a hurricane in his sleep and then finds his cap by the bed and shoves that on for good measure. His eyes feel bleary. The cold’s keeping his bones dozy, tired and creaking with every move, but eventually he manages to force enough energy to get up and off the bed.

The rain’s stopped somewhere in the night, which is a good thing. Means they don’t have to go through a miserable trek back to Diamond City, which is another thing to be relieved about. It’s still pretty cold out — it’ll only get colder, as the weeks draw on, and if they draw the short end of the stick it might start snowing and won’t  _that_  be just frickin’ delightful — but he’s got on, like, seven layers of jackets right now, all nicked from the Gunners they’d taken out. They smell a bit like sweat, and dust, but that’s okay. It’s the wastes. Lots of worse things to smell like than just sweaty dust.

He doesn’t really move for awhile. It’s still cold and his toes still feel a little frozen, but it’s... Nice, right now. The overpass is quiet, all echoing silence, without the chaos of squabbling Gunners, or the chrring of turrets or assaultrons. Dust motes stirring in the air, shrouded lightly in mist. The wasteland is isn’t quiet all that often — too much going on, always something or someone killing or being killed, and if you’re lucky it wouldn’t be  _you_   — but sometimes, sometimes they get a glimpse of something like this. Just sometimes, the wastes offer a little respite, and MacCready’s granted a little peace of mind before he gets thrown back into the chaos of everyday life. Into the chaos of living.

With that, he finds his eyes glancing over to the bed behind his. Snorts a little, when all he sees is a mound of layers over a curled up figure, the only indication of the person underneath being the slow up-down movement of breathing and the silver hair at the head of the bed, fanned out, with only a few streaks of black and grey. Adust is really curled up tightly, all the worn layers piled on top of him like blankets, and MacCready doesn’t know whether to feel bad or grateful that he’s finally found someone who deals with the cold worse than he does.

It takes him a second or two before he realizes something. Nothing huge, he doesn’t think, but still a pretty big deal.

It’s the first time, in awhile, that Adust’s slept quiet.

And it’s not like MacCready’s talking out of his ass, Adust really  _is_  sleeping quiet, for the first time since... a while, since MacCready’s known the guy. And he should know, alright, he’s been basically at the guy’s side and watching his back ever since they’d met up the morning after the Third Rail meeting. He’s taken watch on their nights out and saw firsthand, Adust in a heap of whimpers, twitching and curled in a ball, and other times he wakes up and he can hear the soft sounds of crying. It’s — it’s heartbreaking, he can admit that much, and MacCready can also admit to feeling a little helpless, sometimes. Can’t do much, besides hoping whatever skeletons Adust’s buried goes back to the ground sooner or later.

For once, it’s quiet. MacCready finds himself finally getting to his feet, wiggling his toes in his boots, and walking over, just checking. Sure enough, he can just barely see half of Adust’s face under all that fabric, and his dark brows are, for once, unfurrowed. Relaxed. Breathing steady and even. For a second, MacCready considers waking the guy up, getting an early move on to Diamond City, but he rethinks it immediately. Turns, and leaves him be. Guy needs all the decent sleep he can get, rare as it comes in the wastes. It’s  _probably_  still early anyway. They’ve got time.

( In his mind, he wonders if  _he’s_  the reason why Adust’s sleeping sound, this morning. And, okay, if he were honest, he’s just a  _little_  proud about it.

MacCready’s seen pieces of Adust before. Not just the man he sees everyday, but also the guy beneath all that grief. Beneath all that silent suffering, beneath lapses of time where he doesn’t seem altogether there, beneath every morning he wakes and MacCready has to pretend he definitely doesn’t see teartracks down sharp cheeks. He’s  _seen_ it, the kind of guy Adust is beneath all that, small moments when they travel, where Adust snorts at MacCready’s jokes or elbows him when MacCready makes a  _good_  one and.

Last night, it was  _there_. Not all of who he used to be, sure, MacCready can get that, but Adust was  _there_. In the moment, properly, not just when bullets are flying overhead. Adust was there with him, laughing,  _actual_  laughing, warm and bright and responsive, had joked with him, had sassed at him, and they’d just... Hung out and talked. Shared overly fancy wine between them, passed between each other like it definitely didn’t take MacCready fifteen minutes to uncork the damned thing.

And it’s not like MacCready hates who Adust is, even when he’s  _not_  in a good mood. Because, let’s be real, you travel with someone everyday for a month and you learn quick whether you like ‘em or whether you’d rather shoot ‘em in the head. Adust is... He’s  _good_. At the core, at the heart, he’s good. The kind that proves it by the way he acts, not just running his mouth. Buying most of their ammo and resources, getting them room and food, always willing to split whatever he’s having without question or comment. Adust  _cares_ , and watches MacCready’s back like he means it. And, lately, and maybe for awhile, MacCready’s gradually stopped worrying about having a knife shunted in it while he’s sleeping. Been actually  _enjoying_  all this travelling together.

But last night was new. A peek of the man beneath all the hurt and it’s... It’d been  _fun_ , to talk to him. Hang out. Had felt like they were long time friends, just shooting the breeze, and there’d still been a moment or two where Adust’s eyes had clouded over, yeah, fine. MacCready won’t blame anyone for that. It’s the wastes. No one can blame anyone for their losses. But there’s more to Adust beyond just the blank canvas he’s got on most of everyday, and MacCready’s been getting glances of it, slowly, in growing frequency as they’ve started travelling together. And last night, it was  _there_. And Adust had smiled at him, grinned in a way that was warm and a little contagious, and he’d agreed —

 _Team_. They made a good team. And maybe it’s taken them a little longer to come to terms with a friendship that’s started ahead without ‘em, but it’s... Nice, to have friends again, in the wastes. Someone in his corner again. He can only hope Adust feels the same. )

In the end, he walks away, leaves the guy to his rest, with an extra layer on and MacCready a layer less.

Walking down the interchange again after so long is just... It really brings back memories of being stationed here. None of them particularly good. A lot of them making a hollow, cold feeling settle in his gut, when he remembers the less honourable things he's had to do to get here. He scuffs his boots a little on the asphalt as we walks along the side of the road, looking out on the Commonwealth. Ignoring the pile of bodies they’d shoved to the side, because no one likes eating dinner next to a pile of corpses, unless you’re a raider or a mutie. He doesn’t doubt that some other group will come up and take this place eventually — the location is too good to pass up, and unless the Minutemen can snag it first (and he seriously doubts it), he’s predicting raiders in a week. Maybe two, if they’re pushing slower from the cold.

He sees the trail of smoke before he sees the synth smoking it, and he finds himself walking over. Nick Valentine’s over by the main lift, under the open sky, coat missing and sleeves rolled up and leaning on his elbows, a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other. One of those elbows is bent out of shape, and MacCready winces at the look of it.  _Ouch_. Lucky that it isn’t human.

Valentine probably hears him, judging by how the synth’s golden eyes turn to look at him (and that still weirds him out, okay, it’s unnerving as fu —) and nods. And, well, it’s not like MacCready’s got anything better to do.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” Valentine greets amiably. “Thought you’d still be sleepin’.”

MacCready huffs, rubbing his hands together as he comes by. “Too frickin’ cold for my tastes.”

“And Adust?” Nick asks.

“Sleeping like a baby.”

Nick just nods, going back to his book. MacCready peers over, tries to get what the title says, but he gets nothing from the way Nick’s holding it, and the words are too small for MacCready to even try and read in his head. He can read better than the average wastelander but not  _that_  good, alright? It’s not like he’s got a lot of time to practice, or a whole lot of books to practice on when he does.

He’s still trying to squint at the pages though, when Nick suddenly offers a box of cigarettes over. MacCready blinks.  _When did he finish his own_?

“It’s Cormac McCarthy’s  _The Road_ , if you’re wonderin’. Carry it with me in my coat, got away pretty fortunate with it not getting shot so far. At least, not so much.” Nick says, sounding knowing in a way that would irk MacCready if it weren’t so damn early. “ _Borrowed time and borrowed world, and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it_.”

MacCready raises a brow, taking a cigarette and lighting it. Takes it to his mouth and puts his lighter in his pocket, and breathes it in, smoke curling lazily in his lungs before breathing out. “Sounds depressing.”

Nick half-smiles at that. “It’s interesting. Pre-war. Talks about a world almost like ours, in a way. Interesting prediction in any case, even if it ain’t always on the mark.”

MacCready snorts at that, bringing the cigarette back to his lips, taking a slow drag of it. What do the old worlders know about the wasteland? They had  _everything_ , and then took all of that with them when they dropped the bombs. Everywhere, MacCready only sees what they’d thought about what they’d done — everywhere he goes, there’s nuclear power, there’s atomic bombs, it’s in every pre-war art piece he sees and every song he hears, and it says a lot about the old worlders. They’d never taken their own predictions seriously. Could make pretty art and songs about it, to them it was  _clean_ , to them it was nothing, and then they did it and look at where the world is.

It pisses him off, if he were honest. They were making  _jokes_  about it, but they never had to deal with the kinda crap that every wastelander had to deal with now. Daisy’s talked about it,  _Adust’s_  talked about it. Before all this, people had everything. The cars strewn across roads made transport so much easier, before all this. There were so many kinds of jobs back then. There was fresh, non-irradiated food and water. People got  _educations_ , properly, kids didn’t have to worry about that, and even the most unfortunate never had to fight every day of their lives, never had to worry about killing for every meal since they were kids.

Heck, back then, Daisy said flies were smaller than a  _bottlecap_.

But then there was a war. There was a war, and then the bombs were dropped, and nobody won. Nobody won and everything was gone and now, now everyone after that’s had to pick up the pieces and deal with the aftermath. The big guys who dropped them got to get away with death, and now everyone else left is out here and trying every damn day to survive the fallout.

Yeah, MacCready’s allowed to be pissed about that, he thinks.

He hears the sound of a book closing, and MacCready smokes his cigarette almost down to the filter before flicking the butt away. Valentine’s shut his book too, taking out his own cigarette. MacCready’s always wondered why he bothered. Not like he can actually feel the effects, can he? It’s a waste of good smokes, in his opinion.

“Are you goin’ with him?”

MacCready blinks back to reality. Frowns a bit at Valentine, who’s looking over at him.

“What?”

“I asked if you were goin’ with him.” Nick says, gentle and slow. “Adust. To take down Kellogg.”

MacCready scowls. “Obviously. What, you think I’d go back on my word?”

Nick shakes his head. “Nothin’ like that. Just wanted to know. Kellogg is... Dangerous, you know. Just wanna make sure that’s a risk you’re aware of taking.”

As if Nick has to tell him twice. Kellogg’s on the highest threat on every Gunner list he knows about, and not just any frickin’ rando can climb up  _those_  ranks. Doesn’t help that people don’t know what to expect around Kellogg. The guy is a mercenary, sure, but he’s got no code of his own to hold up. He takes, and he takes, and he takes, and stoops to levels even MacCready’s got the sense and the moral compass to never touch. MacCready  _knows_  there’s blood under those fingernails that’ve never done wrong, but are caked there anyway, stale and ugly. Facing this guy... MacCready’s going to be marching right up to an unknown enemy and punching it in the face. There’s a chance, a  _chance_ , that MacCready won’t come out from this alive.

It’s not like that isn’t already the everyday life of the wasteland. MacCready’s no stranger to danger or risks. Every second you’re out here, you run the risk of being attacked by wildlife out to kill you. Or you could eat something bad and mess up your insides. Or the radstorms could come in when you’re not prepared. Or a raider could shoot you the second you turn your back around, or a behemoth could be hurling rocks at you. Death is lurking every damn day, in the Commonwealth. MacCready’d be lying if he said being wary was a new feeling.

He knows. He  _knows_  that doing this isn’t just dealing with the risks of it, it’s coming right up to it’s face and poking it with a stick. There’s a very real chance he won’t come out of this alright.

But he’s prepared. Kellogg’s always seen travelling alone, always reported doing things on his own, and always catching his victims by surprise. This time, it’ll be him who’s hunted down, and the element of surprise will be on  _their_  side. And between his and Adust’s impeccable aim, they can handle this. They can handle an  _entire base of Gunners_ in a single day, up close and personal.  _Gunner sergeants_  in power armour and equipped to the teeth in arms and soldiers and assaultrons and turrets. They can  _handle_  a single screwed up merc hiding out injured in a dingy old fort.

( And all that’s mattered to him, so far, has been earning enough caps to keep Duncan alive. Enough caps to keep him fed, to pay Joseph and Angela for his care, to pay for the medical aid his son needs to stay alive. And it’s been  _working_. Duncan is getting  _better_ , every week and every day, and yesterday’s haul will be enough to pay for Duncan’s care for the  _next three months_ , even after splitting the loot. That and the accumulation of caps he’s gotten working with Adust the past month? MacCready will stop by Goodneighbour on the way out, and he’s going to hand the caps to Daisy, and, well.

If worst comes to worst, at least he knows he’s paid his dues. He’s done his duty, as a father, to look out for his kid as best as he could. The caps he’s earned, it’ll all go to Duncan, and it’ll be enough to set him up for half a year’s worth of care, and if he’s right, Duncan will be all better by then. Maybe he won’t be around, but all that matters is that his kid is safe. Protected. Even if it’s not MacCready that’s doing the protecting, not physically. He knows Joseph and princess both love Duncan, he knows they’d be happy to take Duncan in and raise him as their own, if worst came to worst.

But that’s only on the worst case scenario. And MacCready’s got  _no_  intention of ever letting it get that bad. He’s got a backup, sure, but he’s planning to come out of that fort alive and in one piece and  _kicking_. And with him, he’s going to be dragging the guy who’s helped him get here, who’s watched his back the same way MacCready’s been watching his, who’s been selfless and splitting the loot and paying for MacCready’s half in resources when MacCready sends almost all his caps home to Duncan, who’s  _helped_. 

Because they make a  _damn_  good team, then MacCready at least owes him for that. And MacCready never goes back on his word. )

“Nothing I’m not used to.” MacCready answers, finally. Looks away from Nick, stares out into the waking Commonwealth. “Kellogg could kill me, but so could a bloatfly. I  _made_  my promises. I don’t break ‘em.”

And if he’d looked over at Nick, maybe he’d see the look in the old synth’s eyes. Something warm, something looking like  _approval_ , before they’d both turned to watch the rest of the wasteland wake with the sunrise.

( Come noon, they’ve got everything packed and ready to go, packs fit to  _bursting_  with whatever they can carry. Nick’s coat ends up being used as a makeshift pack instead, carrying the extra guns, and Mac and Adust have their stuff split evenly. They’ll be making a tiny fortune selling this all off, and MacCready’s  _itching_  to get it to happen.

Along the way, they talk. Nick tells stories. MacCready quips jokes. And Adust  _laughs_ , soft but there at intervals.

For the wasteland, it’s not a bad day. )

 

* * *

 

 

Inhale. Exhale. He counts the seconds —  _one, two, three,_  and at the bottom of his breath he squeezes the trigger.

The raider in the far distance crumples to the ground, and MacCready’s lets out a little cheer.

“Ha! Impressed yet? Told you I’d make that. You owe me five caps.”

The afternoon sun feels good on their backs, evens out the frigid temperatures, and MacCready’s feeling even better with his five raider killstreak. Beside him, Adust’s on the ground with him too, face unreadable behind the gasmask but the tiny huff behind it unmistakeable. And there’s nothing as nice as hearing the sound of bottlecaps being pushed towards him. He hums triumphantly as he picks one up and flips it. It glimmers in the air as it falls, and it’s  _good_ , though it’s not like it’s a real bet either way. They’re only putting forward five or ten caps at most, and they both know that whatever they lose or earn won’t matter considering they split half their resources regardless.

Still. It’s a fun thing. It’s been two days since they’d gotten back to Diamond City, the first day they’d been busy getting themselves patched up by Doc Sun, getting wounds dressed and injuries jabbed at with stims before heading for an early night at Valentine’s agency. And then yesterday they’d spent the whole day trading and bartering the loot they’d snagged from taking out Winlock and Barnes. MacCready’s pretty sure they gave Arturo a heart attack, when they’d spilled all their looted guns onto the table and started asking for prices.

They’d come out of that with a heavy pouch of caps each, and MacCready’d grinned so wide his face hurt.

Today, though, they’ve been restless. While their injuries are pretty much cleared up — stims are almost literal lifeblood, and Adust’s leg has only a slight mark where the graze was and MacCready’s neck is already clear of bruises — it’d be better to just take the extra day, play it safe, make sure their in top form. But if anything, they’re restless with energy right now — anxious and  _knowing_ , half excited to get a move on already and half dreading the confrontation. Kellogg’s no joke.

So they’d grabbed their rifles and coats and headed just outside of Diamond City to do a little target practice. Shooting skills are perishable, after all. Works as a good excuse to get some practice in and kill some time and make sure they’re at the top of their game for when they face the big bad. There’d been reports of raider camps not too far away from Diamond City, anyway, so they’d be technically making Diamond City safer. It’s still good karma if the goals just happen to align with their own, right?

Didn’t take them long to head out and climb up the nearest tall, safe building. Headed up to the roof via fire escape, made a temp sniper’s nest and settled. Got the raider camps in sight. And then MacCready had shelled out the first five caps.

“Bet you ten caps I can take out that last raider hiding in the building there.” Adust says, eyes already on the scope. MacCready can’t see whatever face he’s making, but he’s  _damn well_  sure he can hear the slight challenge in the tone.

MacCready  _scoffs_. “I call BS. You can’t even  _see_  him through — “

A resounding  _crack!_  Make him  _jolt_ , and MacCready nearly snaps his neck turning, hurrying to look back to his rifle and peering through the scope. Sure enough, if he looks through the window of the building in the far distance where the raiders were holed up, he can just barely see a fallen body and a growing pool of blood. When he turns back to Adust, all he sees is a head tilt that looks too smug for its own good.

“How the — how did you — that’s  _unfair_.” MacCready scrambles, before scowling. “... It doesn’t count if I didn’t see it happen.”

Adust  _laughs_  at that, sounding surprised and almost offended. “That’s not how this works!”

And yeah, okay. MacCready can’t  _actually_  be mad at the guy, especially when he’s laughing like that, even though he does feel a little sulky that he’s been outdone,  _again_. He’s a good sport. Most of the time.

( And besides, it’s been  _good_ , the past few days. Seeing Adust like this. Responsive, laughing, just... Being  _here_. Actually  _talking_  to him, the both of them actually — actually  _connecting_. Adust still drifts off, sometimes, still blanks out and gets awkward and fumbly talking to some people, and the quiet nights haven’t exactly been a trend since Mass Pike —

But it’s still better than how he was, when the they’d first met, where Adust had been quiet, wary, never quite here and lost in his mourning. )

“Hey, I don’t make the rules.” MacCready snorts, turning back to his scope, looking around for more raiders. “Except, oh wait, I  _do_.”

“You’re a cheater.” MacCready hears Adust scoff, beside him.

“No, I’m MacCready — “ and coughs a laugh, when Adust elbows him in the arm, “ _Hey_ , I’m right! Besides, it’s not fair. I didn’t have any fancy pre-war training like you did. I’m completely self-taught, you know.”

There’s a beat of silence, after that, and MacCready wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. Peers up from his scope — it’s not like there’s any raiders left where they were shooting at, anyway — and glances over, before realizing Adust’s looking right at him. And the guy sounds so sincere, when he finally breaks the silence, “Really?”

MacCready smirks. “Oh, yeah. Picked up a rifle when I was ten and never looked back.”

Adust almost reels back. “ _Ten_? Shit, that’s... That’s so young.”

“Yeah, but you gotta learn what you gotta to survive in the wasteland. Learnt to shoot by myself, and by eleven I could take down animals on my own.” MacCready says. Preening, just a little. What? He’s allowed to be proud. His shooting skills have saved his  _life_ , multiple times, along the lives of others, especially when he was guarding Little Lamplight. “Learnt to maintain my rifle and scavenge for ammo and everything, practiced everytime we could afford to spare the bullets.”

“Tiny badass.” Adust says, softly amused, and MacCready snickers.

“What can I say? Ain’t no rest for the wicked.” MacCready grins. “I can outshoot almost everyone. Brotherhood, Hancock’s goons — I just need a rifle and good ammo and I’m solid.”

“Except me.” Adust points out.

MacCready rolls his eyes. “You don’t count.”

Adust chuckles, at that, and MacCready gets up to stretch. His feels his joints pop as he does, audibly, and he cracks his neck a little as he does a quick sweep around. Diamond City’s entrance is just a jog around the corner, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting back in time before the sun goes down. It’s good, killing time like this. It’s actually  _relaxing_  instead of boring, and the hefty pile of caps in his pack makes him feel like he’s not wasting time, like he was when he was still stuck in the backroom of the Third Rail, forced to wait and rot and do nothing while waiting for a job to come his way.

It’s a whole lot better than it was back then, that’s for sure. He can hardly believe it sometimes. Nowadays he’s better fed, better armed. He’s got a whole heavy tin of caps to send back home, and a son who’s making a slow but steady recovery. The open road and a loaded weapon and a... friend? A friend at his side who can tolerate his smart mouth and makes stupider jokes than he does. At this point, the only way it could get better is if Kellogg personally came up here on his hands and knees and delivered Adust’s boy to him.

Wouldn’t  _that_  be the dream.

“ — llo?”

MacCready blinks back to reality, glances to his side. Adust’s gotten up too, rubbing his hands together in the slight wind that comes up the higher parts of buildings.

“I... I was just saying that you could, uh. Improve your aim.” Adust repeats. Pauses, for a second, and then, “I mean, shooting. Sniping. You’d do better if you follow through your shots.”

MacCready frowns, at that. Feels his shoulders tensing, defensive. What’s this guy trying to insinuate here? That MacCready’s inferior or something? “What, you saying my shooting isn’t good enough? I’m  _completely self taught_  and I can  _still_  shoot almost as good as you can. You’re skilled, you should know talent when you see one.”

“No, no, I know. I know. I mean, I _meant_.” Adust says quickly, waving his hands, before lowering them and fidgeting, a little. “Listen. You... By experience alone, you’ve outdone me. And I think it’s... I mean, in the context of this wasteland, you’ve — you  _are_  amazing. Your aim is incredible, for someone who’s never had training. I  _mean_  it, and for you to have survived with it all your life... That’s a feat. Your technique is already really good. There’s just... some small things. Minor things. Could help in accuracy, if you’d like.”

And he... Doesn’t know, how to react to that. Can feel his cheeks warming at all the praise and he turns back to the horizon before Adust can look too hard at it, because, alright, he’s used to puffing himself up some, but that was. Who  _wouldn’t_  turn a little red at that kind of praise? And Adust had sounded so  _sincere_ , so genuine, it’s almost a little embarrassing.

“I, uh.” And he hates his mouth right now and everything that comes out of it, and he shuts up again, kicking a stray bit of concrete off the roof. Pulls down the brim of his hat.

He can see Adust moving, beside him. Taking a step away, like the guy’s giving him space.  _Damn it_ , MacCready thinks. He’s just... Not used to compliments, like that. He’s used to a few pats on the back for a good job, but not. You know.

“You  _are_  really good, you know.” Adust says. And MacCready looks up, now, back at him, because that voice is back again. Distant. Looking elsewhere. Remembering something long gone. “I’d know. Joined the military when I was 18.”

MacCready frowns, here, whatever trace of embarrassment from earlier gone. He’s not... Sure, what to reply here. Out here in the wastes, 18 is a pretty late age to pick up a gun, but then again, Adust was from before. And Daisy had told MacCready about the world then — where sometimes, people didn’t even ever need to pick up guns at all. Could go their whole lives without it. It’s not a world MacCready can imagine.

As if he’s read MacCready’s thoughts, Adust continues. “I was young. I stayed for... A long while. Until I left. I — I wanted to be there. For Jennifer. For Shaun. But I was there for a long while. Not necessarily as long as others. But I served on active duty for a decent amount of time. Seen things. Done things. Trained hard. Earned my name.”

MacCready raises a brow. “Your name?”

Adust finally turns back to him. Laughs, briefly, almost surprised. “Yeah, ‘Adust’. Means scorched, burnt. It’s not my real name, obviously. Was from a mission. Took out a bunch of enemy turrets in one go, whole place went up in flames.”

MacCready smiles a bit there. “Always the hero, huh?”

“Nah. Did what anyone would.” Adust shrugs. “I... I didn’t save everyone, then. Some people still died on my watch. I don’t know. ... Maybe you’d have done better.”

There’s — there really isn’t any right way to respond to that. Not really. MacCready can’t agree or disagree — he’s never lived that world. Doesn’t know what it means to live in a world without all the wasteland’s death. Can’t understand a world with so many things that they never have to worry about it, that they don’t have to fight for it. It sounds too perfect. Too good to be true.

Then again, that same world dropped the same bombs that wiped everything out. Couldn’t be that good.

In the end, MacCready just shrugs. “Don’t know. We’ll never find out. Doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that we’re here. You’re good, I’m good. We keep each other alive. It’s enough.”

Sometimes he wishes he could pick up abilities through comic books. Like getting enough radiation to see through things, so he can see through Adust’s mask and see just what he looks like, right now, beneath the plastic. Instead that’s all he sees — that, and the Commonwealth laid out before them, sun high in the sky and the wind blowing.

“I guess you’re right.” Adust replies, finally. Stares back into the distance, glinting back in milky lens.

MacCready snorts. “Like always.”

Adust releases a small huff of a laugh, there, and MacCready smiles right back. The tension slowly fading from the air, and Adust slowly coming back to himself.

“So what were you saying, huh, boss? Showing me a few new tricks? If it’s something I already know, you owe me a cap.”

Adust tilts his head to the left, and there’s a smile somewhere in there. “That sounds like a challenge.”

They both settle back down, picking up their rifles again. The sun’s high in the sky, at least for the moment, warming their backs, and already Adust starts talking, low, non-patronizing, and MacCready settles in for a long afternoon.

 

* * *

 

 

Except it isn’t.

In fact, time passes pretty damn fast when you’re not looking, as MacCready’s found out, and both he and Adust had stopped looking at the time once they started  _really_  getting into training. He won’t ever admit it, but yeah, alright, Adust’s advice  _had_  worked. All the guy offered were a few tips and tricks, how to posture himself, how to better estimate wind influence, how to follow through with the trigger — 

( — and then MacCready’s peering through the scope of his rifle again. Inhales, exhales.  _One, two, three —_

The shot rings out as he squeezes the trigger, his eyes still on the scope, and he watches a far off garbage can get knocked down, and he  _grins_.

“More accurate, isn’t it.” Adust says, not quite a question, and MacCready’s got a sense that the guy’s probably smiling under there.

MacCready rolls his eyes, getting back up, clicking his tongue. “Yeah, yeah, fine, you got me. What, you want me to pay you for it?”

“You already lost ten caps to me.” Adust points out, and laughs when MacCready shoves him lightly. )

And now, two hours later, and Adust hits the ground with a  _whuff_ , hand smacking MacCready’s shoulder repeatedly, and MacCready grins on top of him, elbow on the guy’s chest but not driving hard.

“I give, I give.” Adust laughs, breathless, and MacCready snorts and climbs off of him.

“What’d I say about watching your legs? You think people here play fair?” MacCready grins, breathing a little heavy himself. Stands up, and dusts himself, before offering a hand to the guy on the ground.

“Point taken.” Adust wheezes, and takes MacCready’s hand, getting up.

Okay, so they’d ended up moving from long distance to close quarter combat. And yeah, okay, the guy  _does_  know a thing or two already — he was  _trained_  pre-war, what do you expect — but MacCready’s got about a decade above him in terms of sheer, actual experience, and he's _faster_. They practice with their shorter-range guns — ammo clip emptied, of course, had turned the safety on too because  _last_  thing they need is accidentally shooting each other in the gut — and then they’d started practicing methods of disarming, started talking about raider behaviour, and then, well.

Somewhere along the way they’d started shoving each other as a joke, and then it become rougher, and what started out as practice became basically roughhousing on the roof of whatever building they’re on. And while technically whatever match they were having came out even, MacCready likes to think he does better in a real situation. Adust’s got army training, but MacCready’s grown up in the wastes. And while he’s definitely not the best brawler in the Commonwealth (the honour’s already taken up, anyway, by a lovely lady down in the Combat Zone), he knows enough about the wasteland’s way of fighting, and the wastes play _dirty_. Adust is decent on his own, leaps better than any raider, but MacCready likes to think he can throw a better punch.

But the sun’s already going down over the horizon, painting everything orange and gold, and the temperatures are dropping. They have to head back soon, get back to Valentine’s place and catch up with Arturo. Recheck their supplies and weapons for tomorrow, for like, the bazillionth time. Somewhere along the way, his hat’s skidded ten feet from where they were, and he has to walk over and pick it up, putting it back on his messy head. Even Adust looks roughened up, when MacCready turns back to look at him — golds in messy silver hair, almost entirely loose from the bun he keeps it in, and scuffs on Adust’s gasmask. MacCready grins.

“I kicked your ass.” He notes, smug. “What’d I tell you?”

“Shut up.” Adust hushes, and there’s a smile in his voice when he elbows MacCready a little in the side. MacCready takes it as a victory.

They take their time heading back to the city gates, mocking each other the whole way because they’re  _adults_ , damn it. The streets are safe, today — turrets chugging along at random spots, the only gunshots in the far distance and safely away from them. The sun’s already making it’s way steadily lower over the horizon, and they must still look like a mess when they get back because one of the guards looks at them, brow raised, before letting out a low whistle, smirking for some reason or another.

“You two look like you had  _fun_.” The guard comments, sounding weirdly teasing, though MacCready doesn’t get why. “Outside city walls huh? Livin’ dangerous. I can respect that.”

Beside him, MacCready notes the pale nape of Adust’s neck flushing pink, but MacCready doesn’t have half a clue why. The guard doesn’t say anything else either, and in the end MacCready just rolls his eyes and moves forward. He doesn’t have time to waste talking to weirdos — he’s got a bowl of hot food in his future, and hopefully a warm bed to sleep in tonight, and his caps heavy in his pockets. That’s about all he’s asking for, and he’s looking forward to it.

Diamond City’s evening market is already coming out around the city centre, the lights already flickering on from the rapid oncoming night. People milling around the stalls, passing traders or scavvers already pouring into the city, probably not looking forwards to spending a night out freezing in the wastes. Depending on how many traders come by before things start  _really_  hitting ball-freezing temperatures, the city will either make a loss or a profit in the coming winter. Aren’t many willing, or stupid, enough to brave a wasteland winter for trading after all. They’ll stay put where they are, whether it’s in here or out there.

He rubs his hands together, breathing on them, watching his breath turn to mist in the colder air before turning back to Adust. The pinkness is gone now, mostly, but the guy’s looking up at a different direction than he is, and MacCready frowns. Follows the look, all the way up to the Colonial Taphouse, where there’s a few upperstanders lounging around. Huh.

“It’s another bar.” MacCready says, taking a stab at whatever Adust is curious about. “Like the Dugout, but no rooms and more assholes. Or so I heard.”

“Ah. Doesn’t look that popular.” Adust notes. “Sorry. Just... Never really seen people up there. Have you been?”

MacCready shakes his head. “Nah. Heard good things about the food there, but they charge ridiculous prices. And the people there are jerks.”

Adust hums, beside him. Quiet again, for a beat or two, that MacCready’s too used to by now, waiting it out, before he pipes up again. “Do you, uh. Want to go?”

MacCready looks at him. Raises a brow. “What, to the taphouse?”

Adust nods. “It looks nice. Never been there, to the upperstands. I mean, not in Diamond City. I kind of want to see the view — and what's not to celebrate about taking out a raider nest?”

MacCready can't argue with that. Smirks, though. “Buying me dinner? Didn’t take you for a romantic.” Even though Adust’s bought them food plenty of times.

Adust’s neck flushes pink all over again, and MacCready snickers, Adust gently shoving him before walking forward. “Nevermind, you can go without, I want all my caps back.”

“Oh, come on!” MacCready laughs, jogging to catch up. “Fine, I’ll tag along. Not like I’ve ever been up there myself anyway.”

Adust reties his hair, as they make their way up to the stairs leading to the taphouse, and MacCready ignores the suspicious look the guard gives them, happy to give the man a cold shoulder as they make their way past the gate. He’s too used to the ugly looks some of Diamond City’s residents give him whenever he walks past. To them, he’s just some dirty, outsider mercenary, dangerous and a reminder that a bloodier life exists outside this metal, green wall of luxury that they like to squat in, as if they close their eyes and shut their ears they won’t have to face the world. It suits him just fine. Nobody bothers him, and that’s how he likes it.

The Taphouse looks... About as boring as he’d thought it’d be. MacCready can see the outside shelves, already fully stocked with food and drinks, and a Mister Handy floating around. It’s real top class, sure, but it doesn’t feel  _comfortable_. Doesn’t feel like a place to relax in at all. Already he feels like he prefers the Third Rail, and over there everyone ran the risk of, you know. Getting stabbed. Shot.This place, though, it just feels kind of stuffy. He doesn’t belong here.

Though, he  _does_  like the way the few upperstanders sitting on the outer deck look at them as they walk up to the place. The look of surprise, and then disgust, like he and Adust are walking up to them covered up in brahmin sh — brahmin crap. When Adust walks through the threshold and heads to the edge, peering over the side to watch Diamond City, MacCready’s busy looking at the upperstanders staring at them, appalled. MacCready can’t help but grin, brushing his fingers over the tops of the plastic chairs.  _Look at me, rubbing my nasty little waster hands over your precious furniture._ Almost wants to be disgusting on purpose to see their reaction.

“This... is really nice.” Adust breathes, snapping MacCready back to reality. Makes the guy turn to look at him, Adust facing out to the city, hands on the railing. “Wow.”

MacCready blinks, and then looks over to where Adust is looking at, and feels his own eyes widen in wonder.  _Wow_  is right. The sky’s almost entirely dark by now, but Diamond City is warm and alive, lights flickering like torchbugs below them, people moving and flowing like a heartbeat, like the city itself is  _breathing_. Stall signs bright in the dark, Power Noodles like the heart of the city, the sound of talking and moving. It’s — it really is, pretty nice.

Too bad the moment is cut short by the sound of a mechanical sounding throat clearing. He and Adust turn around at the same time, and come face to face with the Mister Handy that was floating around.

“Hello,  _sirs_ ,” the thing says, and,  _wow_. Record broken. Even Whitechapel Charlie doesn’t sound  _this_  pissy. “If you’re lost, might I suggest the Dugout Inn below? It may be more befitting of persons of your... standing.”

MacCready scowls. “You got a  _problem_  with us being here?”

The robot gives a long-suffering  _sigh_. “I do believe it’d take me all night to list them down, and I  _do_  have other, important guests to serve.”

“Who said we weren’t guests?” Adust comments, beside MacCready, sounding unhappy himself.

“Because my data tells me that you and your  _friend_  here are of dangerously low classes for this establishment.” The thing drones, sounding exasperated. “Now if you’re going to order, please do so before you unappetize the rest of us.”

MacCready wonders, just a tiny bit, if Diamond City security will throw him in jail for punching a robot. Or shooting it. Maybe a dozen times or so. He’s almost got half a mind to do that to the rest of the people here too — the two or three upperfielders on the deck looking either amused, disdained, or too  _smug_  for MacCready to not  _want_  to punch. One lady, all suit and blonde hair, curls an ugly looking scowl at them, and MacCready wants to spit in her food.

“Come on, now. While Diamond City is  _certainly_  hospitable, we don’t have time for the likes of the poor and stupid up here.” The lady says, sharp and prissy. “Now, if you’d like table scraps, Wellingham can fix you a baggie of leftovers, mutt.”

Oh,  _that_  does it.

“Hey,  _listen_ , lady, don’t know what kind of piss you’re drinking everyday to be this much of a b — this much of an  _ass_ , but if anyone here is stupid it’s whoever gave birth to  _you_.” He hisses, back straightening, almost  _snarling_.

And there’s a nice, little zip of  _delight_  down his spine as he watches her face contort from smug to absolutely effin’  _pissed_ , watching her fists  _clench_ as she stands up to glare at him _._ He only puffs up his chest, refusing to break eye contact with her. She’s glaring him down like it’ll be enough to make him catch fire, and all it does is make him want her to fight him. Put up those soft, never-worked-a-day-in-her-life fists up, uncalloused and unlearnt, and bloody those gold rings of hers, and then she’d see the  _real_  meaning of poor and stupid.

A nudge on his shoulder snaps him back, though, and he glances at Adust beside him. Expression unreadable, but posture rigid.

“Stop.” Adust says, quiet, and MacCready  _scowls_  because evidently, mouldy-cheese-in-a-suit hears it, crossing her arms in radiating victory, mouth curled in a smirk so vile it could make a bloatfly implode.

“That’s right. Call off your rabid dog and leave us, before I call security.” She says. “We still  _want_  to keep our appetites for dinner.”

And MacCready is  _this_  close to spitting back another insult to her face, but a hand on his arm  _squeezes_ , and he just manages to bite back his anger as Adust moves forward, squeezing past her and the Mister Handy, almost stumbling into her, but it’s not like she’s looking at him. She’s too busy staring  _MacCready_  down, all holier-than-thou. MacCready glares at her while he moves past her, and he silently hopes she bites off her tongue while she eats her stupid dinner.

The walk down the stairs back to the lower fields of Diamond City are quiet, the security guard snorting at them as they walk past the gates and back down, and MacCready likes to think he’s gained a lot of patience, travelling with Adust, because he waits until they’re all the way at the bottom of the steps before he turns back to Adust, scowling.

“What the heck was that?” MacCready hisses. “You’re just gonna  _stand_  for that?”

Adust is unreadable. “Didn’t want to catch trouble with security.”

“She called us  _stupid!_  Like, I — did you  _see_  how she looked at us??”

“I know. But do we really want trouble when we still need to catch Kellogg tomorrow?” Adust says, softly, and  _that_  shuts MacCready up. Almost makes him feel  _guilty_  — “And besides, I got these.”

And the guy turns to MacCready, holding up two bottles of cold nuka cola, and what looks like a polished gold ring, glinting in the city lights.

“No.  _No_ , you didn’t, how the hell?” MacCready gapes, half-laughing as he takes the ring. “Did you just — from  _her_?”

“Well, the poor and the stupid have to provide  _some_ how.” Adust says, matter-of-factly, and MacCready definitely laughs this time, because holy  _crap_. He takes back everything he’s ever said about Adust being way too nice.

“And the nuka cola — how’d you even  _do_  that? We were barely up there ten minutes!” He grins, tucking the ring into the front pocket of his duster for safekeeping. Pats it happily.

“To be fair, you make a really good distraction.” Adust points out, and MacCready  _snorts_. 

“Too bad we forgot about the actual  _food_  part.” MacCready points out, and Adust turns back to the city centre.

“Right, right. I’m sorry. Really  _was_  planning to try the food up there.” The guy apologizes, though he doesn’t  _sound_  that sorry. MacCready can understand. Eating with those pricks in the upperstands would’ve ruined his own appetite. Either that or he would’ve ended up picking a fight with one or every person there. “Power Noodles stand?”

MacCready turns to look at the power noodle station, Takahashi already dishing out steaming hot bowls of goodness to the gathering crowd of people wanting to wish away the winter’s chill, because people tend look for food and warmth and conversation in the same places. There’s a few seats they could squeeze into, if they wanted, but they’ll be practically elbow to elbow with everyone else who wants food for the evening.

Or.

“I have a better idea.” And MacCready grins.

 

* * *

 

 

“What  _are_  you, part cat?” MacCready grunts, trying his best to reach up on the ledge without spilling his food.

Adust laughs, softly, on the roof above them. The guy’s ridiculously agile, for some reason or another, could climb up there one-handed and MacCready feels just a little dumb for suggesting this only to find out he’s having a little trouble. Sure, it’s not that high of a climb at all, and there’s plenty of places to put his feet, but MacCready’s got a steaming hot bowl of noodles in one hand, okay?

“Hand the bowl to me.” Adust says, kneeling down and reaching over, and MacCready gives it to him. The guy takes it, puts it aside, and then reaches out another hand. MacCready grabs onto it, and Adust helps him up some, MacCready’s boots scuffling a little on the sides of the house before joining him up on the roof. 

It’s not as great as the view from the Colonial Taphouse, sure, but it’s a view nevertheless. Arturo’s roof deck is just tucked away enough from the light to make sure they’re not stared at, and below them they can see people weaving in and out of the crowd, talking, ordering food from Power Noodles or milling around the stalls. He likes it up here. Likes being able to watch people without having people watching him back.

“Couldn’t we have used to door?” Adust says, moving to sit down on the floor. “I mean, it’s Arturo’s house we’re on.”

“He locked it up before heading with Nina to Valentine’s to fix the bucket of bolts up.” MacCready snorts, sitting beside him. “Why go through the trouble of walking all the way over? It’s not like we’re  _in_  the house.”

Adust shrugs like  _fair enough_ , and hands over a bottle of nuka cola over to MacCready, who takes it eagerly. Adust starts unclasping his mask beside him, while he pops the cap and keeps it, and then Adust does the same and they both unanimously raise the bottles to each other, clinking them together in good spirit before taking a swig. Cold drinks in cold weather may not be necessarily the _best_  combination, but it’s  _free_ , and that’s one of the best spices that life’s got to offer.

They don’t talk while they eat, mouths too busy to bother with conversation, and they sit almost shoulder to shoulder while they practically inhale the noodles. Or, MacCready does anyway. Adust’s just sitting by him eating much slower, dark eyes watching the crowd and the lights, while MacCready tries to scrape every last bit of food he can from his bowl. He doesn’t know what exactly’s  _in_  this, but there’s like, fried mirelurk cakes in there, and he’s tempted to break into Takahashi’s stall to steal a bunch more.

( He also still wonders who it is that keeps changing the ingredients to Takahashi’s dishes every so often. Whoever it is deserves a trophy. )

They finish in record time, still, and Adust reaches over to take MacCready’s bowl from him, stacking them together at his side. MacCready is content to settle in and lie down on the roof, arms folded behind his head. The night air is cold, but his stomach is full, warm, and just being inside Diamond City is heaps warmer than being out in the wastes. The stars are shining bright above them, the air clean and clear, and it’s a realization, though not by much, that this is... Honestly, about as good as life’s gotten for him, in the past year. Past few years, if he were honest.

Last time he’d felt this good was when he was out here with Lucy.

( His heart clenches. He knows he wishes she were here with him. But she isn’t, hasn’t been in ages, so he just keeps the memory of her tucked away somewhere protected in his heart, and lets the feeling pass. )

He hears Adust move beside him, and then he looks over, watching the guy settle in to lie down, too, hands on his belly. Up here, no one’s looking at ‘em, and things are  _good_. MacCready takes what peace he can from here. Doesn’t know when the wastes will take it away again. He takes a lungful of cold, sweet Commonwealth air, and lets it out in a mist.

“The stars are nice.” Adust says, breaking the silence. Quiet, and in what MacCready thinks sounds like awe. “Couldn’t see them as brightly, before the war.”

“Told you I had a good spot in mind.” MacCready replies, a little proud of himself.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” MacCready says back, easily. Relaxes, limbs loose and at ease.

“No, I mean it.” Adust says, again, and MacCready glances over to Adust, whose eyes are trained on the sky. Hands fidgeting together on his stomach. “For... Everything? Everything. Watching my back. Tolerating my... Fuck, I don’t know, whatever happens to my head everyday. Talking to me, even when I’m, you know. Doing badly. Even when you could've left me for dead.”

MacCready frowns. Peers at Adust, who looks like he’s firmly keeping his eyes planted on the sky.  _Is this what he’s been thinking about all this time_?

“Hey. I'm not that kind of guy, alright? And I didn't do anything special. Anyone can talk.” MacCready points out, shrugging. “No one’s gonna blame you for grieving, man. You... You’ve been through a lot. And you were watching my back all the same, so we're even.”

“I can’t be the only guy out here who’s lost someone, though. But here I am, messed up in the head anyway.” Adust half-laughs, bitterly. “I just... I know. I know how I can get. Has to be frustrating to deal with, I know I would be. And I — I know, maybe you were talking to me so I wouldn’t get us both killed. But you could’ve left me for dead. So many times. I hired you for your gun but you've been going the extra mile, watching my back and talking to me and being a  _friend_ and I just — I don’t know, I feel like I’ve been forcing you to babysit me. This whole time.”

It’s a lot more words than Adust usually says at a go, but MacCready finds himself not liking them. At  _all_. He knows how he comes off, arrogant and aloof and greedy, but, well. He’s been travelling with this guy for awhile, now. And as much as he likes the feeling of people owing him favours, likes the feeling of always being on the upperhand, he doesn’t like this one.

“If I didn’t want to be around you, I would’ve left already. You said so yourself. Could’ve left you for dead anytime.” MacCready says, gruff. “I mean, fine, okay, I’m  _also_  around because the caps are good. But I’m serious. I would’ve left if I didn’t like hanging around you. You don’t just... I don’t just _live_ with someone for the heck of it. We make a good team, and, I mean — hell, we have fun sometimes, don’t we? You don’t owe me anything, and you’re not forcing me into anything. I _like_ being around you, man.”

Adust makes a sound next to him, and MacCready can’t figure out if it’s a good one or a bad one. “... I’ve been a wreck, though. Over what could be a lost cause.”

And MacCready honestly feels a little burn of frustration, in the back of his head, brows knitted as he looks back over at Adust. Starts seeing that cloudy look settling over his eyes again, the one that says Adust is getting back into his head, back into his doubt, back into his grief and self-loathing and MacCready  _knows_  that look, okay, and he doesn’t hate Adust, but he hates  _that_ , more than anything. Things are just starting to get good,  _really_  good. He doesn’t need, or want, the guy, to slip back into whatever mental fog he’s got going on in there that only Adust has privy to.

There are... words, that spring to his mind. Words that he... Hasn’t really told anyone, except maybe Vadim and what Valentine deduced himself, and Daisy, of course. Something he’s never  _wanted_  to tell anyone else, because here in the wasteland, showing any kind of weakness is just asking for trouble, and a knife in the back. He hasn’t had anyone that trustworthy in a long time, not since Lucy, save for Joseph and Angela and Daisy. Hasn’t had anyone else worthy, anyone else he’s trusted since, anyone who trusts him  _back._

Until Adust.

“... You know those caps you always see me handing to Daisy?” MacCready pipes up. Keeps his eyes on the stars. “How I always ship off most of whatever I earn from my share of the loot?”

He’s pretty sure he can feel eyes on him, now. Adust replies. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I’m not just sending it out to nowhere, obviously. I...” And he’s surprised, a little, at how easy the words come after, “I’ve got a kid. In the Capital Wasteland.”

He hears movement after that. And then he sees Adust, propping up on his elbows, peering over at MacCready, half in disbelief and the other half in... Something else. Something better. But not quite there, and the attention makes MacCready turn a little red, and it takes a lot of willpower to keep his eyes focused on the sky.

“You — are you serious?” Adust says, dumbfounded. And then, disbelief. “You... You’re not just,  _saying_  that, right? Because of me?”

The embarrassment is immediately gone. MacCready’s gaze snaps back to Adust, without him wanting to, and he growls. “What, you think I’d just _make up_ a kid for your sake? What kind of guy do you think I am?”

Adust shrinks back at that, and MacCready feels a little guilty at snapping like that, but it at least seems to cut off whatever doubt there was on Adust’s tongue.

“I... I’m sorry.” Adust says, finally. Settles back down. “... What’s his name?”

“... Duncan.” MacCready breathes, a heartbeat later, calming down. “His name is Duncan. He’s three, and some months.”

Then comes the inevitable question. “... Why is he there, instead of here? With you?”

MacCready’s lips press in a thin line, here, and he ignores the guilt in his own heart at the question. Because he knows, he  _knows_ , that he should be home with his son. Be a real, proper father. Instead he’s out here on a roof, belly full of food and pockets full of caps, while his son’s a whole wasteland away, still sick, still without his parents, and even though MacCready knows Duncan’s in amazing arms with Joseph and Angela taking care of him, he always does feel guilty whenever he’s reminded that he’s miles away from where he should be.

But he has a duty here. He has a duty here and he’s fulfilling it. For himself, for Duncan, and for Lucy.

“It’s safer, back there. I mean, still kind of rough with the Brotherhood of Steel running the place, but not as dangerous as the ‘Wealth. I can’t exactly bring around a kid with me while I’m toting a gun and killing for caps.” MacCready explains, shrugging, looking a whole lot more nonchalant than he feels. “... And he was sick.  _Really_  sick. Couldn’t move for awhile. It was — it was really bad.”

There are definitely eyes on him, now. And he’s expecting berating, maybe just to tack on more guilt, something like  _then why aren’t you there with him then_  or  _aren’t you supposed to be by his side_  or. Something like that.

Instead, when he takes the risk and glances at Adust, he finds dark eyes looking at him, unclouded, sincerity and concern in such  _clarity_  that MacCready, for awhile, finds himself — he finds himself  _breathless_. Trust, trust is one thing, and MacCready knows pity and  _hates_  it, but this? It’s nothing but sympathy, but empathy, nothing but worry, wholehearted and doubtless, and MacCready doesn’t know quite what to say at something so honest.

“Is he okay?” Adust asks, genuine worry in the way his brows furrow.

“Yeah, he’s. He’s getting better. He’s recovering. I mean. That’s what I’m trying to say.” MacCready replies, grasping back the words that escaped him, for that moment earlier. “You. I mean. If it weren’t for you, if you didn’t hire me, didn’t take me with you on all those missions, if you didn’t keep throwing me most of the loot even after backstreet apparel, if you didn’t keep giving me sh — stuff even after you spent on both of us — I wouldn’t have earned the caps I needed to pay for Duncan’s care. I was rotting for  _months_  in the back of the Third Rail, getting a job every two weeks or so that barely paid squat. And then you came along.”

Adust’s eyes have gone soft, in a way, looking at him like that, and MacCready feels his cheeks going warm again, and he looks to the side before continuing.

“And you’ve been... Kind. And I mean,  _actually_  kind, not that fake I’m-here-for-you crap that people say but never mean. I know you say you’re bad at talking or whatever, but what you  _do_  is more important. And what you’ve been doing is that you’ve been watching my back, same as I’ve been watching yours, even with all the crap you have to deal with. Been nice to me even when you didn’t have to. I don’t know about you, but i like having you in my corner. I’m  _choosing_  to stay.”

It’s quiet, for awhile, and MacCready feels dread and regret coil in his gut as he wonders if he’s said too much. He’d basically word vomited there and managed to sound snappy while he did it, and he’s — he’s not proud of that, no. His cheeks burn at how  _much_  he’d revealed, but it’d felt right at the time. He decides to just keep staring at the sky. Maybe if he focuses hard enough he can make lasers come out of his eyes just like in the comic books, and then Adust will be too distracted to think about whatever garbage just came out of MacCready’s mouth.

But it’s just quiet, until Adust says something almost inaudible, and MacCready looks over to figure out  _what_ , and all he sees are soft eyes, looking down at the roof, before back up at MacCready, ears and cheeks slightly red.

“Thanks. I mean, for saying that. And I’m glad your son’s getting better.” Adust says, sincere enough again that MacCready feels the back of his neck heat up, and then, “I’m glad I was a good business opportunity for you.”

The abrupt statement makes MacCready  _snort_ so hard it hurts, and he elbows Adust hard at the side, getting a surprised laugh in response. “Oh come  _on_ , you ass. I was trying to be nice. Guess I’ll never do  _that_  again.”

Adust  _laughs_ , and it sounds so frickin’  _light_ , and warm, and MacCready finds himself grinning right back. Whatever tension, or dread that’d started pooling in his chest just disappears, and he relaxes, shoulder to shoulder with Adust, sharing whatever warmth they can through that tiny bit of contact. Eventually, they both just trail to silence. The good kind. Companionable, easy. MacCready’s so relaxed he almost falls asleep despite the cold.

They take what they can from a moment of peace, lying down side by side on the rooftop. Just talking, laughing, until the cold turns their fingertips numb. Above them, the stars keep their vigil.

 

* * *

 

 

They leave for Goodneighbour first, come morning.

Nick’s nice enough to give them a few more supplies, including a handful of stimpaks that’ll undoubtedly be a lifesaver, and Ellie Perkins bakes them both sweet rolls that MacCready’s sure Adust is starry-eyed over behind the gasmask, and MacCready snarfs it down as fast as he can without choking or getting the sweet glaze over his sensitive teeth. They pack everything they need to — guns, all the ammo they could afford, and the rest of the supplies they need like food and water, before they head out the gates at seven in the morning, the world outside still dark.

They make record time to Goodneighbour, most of the wasteland’s creatures probably too cold to scurry the streets as with the raiders this early out, and MacCready wishes he’d brought extra gloves as Adust pushes open the gate for the both of them to go through. Daisy’s shop isn’t even  _open_  yet, and the neighbourhood guard look downright miserable (and hilarious, if MacCready were honest, because who  _wouldn’t_  laugh at a bunch of grumpy ghouls wielding submachine guns and wearing those ushanka hats. Except he doesn’t actually laugh, not outwardly, because he doesn’t want a hundred new bulletholes in his body.)

The metal shutter rattles loud in the early Goodneighbour morning when MacCready knocks on it, and then he very nearly has a heart attack when it suddenly rolls open and there’s a shotgun aimed at his chest. Daisy looks all around pissed to be woken up, not even bothering to put on her wig and dressed in only a winter’s coat, but then there’s the flicker of recognition in her eyes, and the shotgun gets lowered. The sigh of relief that rapidly leaves his throat comes out in a cloud of mist.

“Fuck, MacCready.” Daisy breathes raggedly, lowering the shotgun, still looking miffed as all get out and just about as tired. “You  _want_  to get shot or what?”

“Sorry, Daize.” He tries, grinning in a way he hopes is charming enough to make her less angry. By the way her eyes go softer, it works. “Just, uh. Wanted to drop off the usual.”

She raises a would-be brow. “The caravan doesn’t come in for another week, MacCready.”

“I know, I know. But I need you to hang onto the caps for me.” He says. “We — Adust and I — we’re heading, uh. Out of town. Gotta deal with someone.”

He watches her eyes go from confused to concerned. Genuinely worried. His heart swells a little for this woman, and he almost feels bad for leaving her with this responsibility.

“How dangerous?” Is all she asks, looking between him and Adust.

“Nothing we can’t handle.” He reassures, before digging around in his pack and taking out a hefty sack of caps, carefully putting it in Daisy’s hand, making sure no one else is watching. “But just in case I'm a little late.”

Dark eyes go wide, and she holds up the caps before lowering it. “This is — this is the most you’ve ever given.” And then her eyes flicker to Adust. “Does he... ?”

MacCready  _grins_. “Yeah. And, by the way, if we come back from this in one piece, there’s gonna be more where that came from. If I miss the caravan or something, if we get delayed, send it on the way, yeah?”

Daisy smiles, there. And even through the leathery, scarred skin of her face and the whole darkness that enshrouds her eyes, he can see just what Adust meant when he said that Daisy was a bombshell, before the war, because even now, she’s  _beautiful_. Radiant, in her kindness, that she only ever shows to a select few people, and something he’s not planning on taking for granted anytime soon. In another life, he thinks, if Daisy were younger, if he’d met her pre-war and without all the pain and baggage the both of them have, he’s pretty sure he’d have fallen for her too.

As it stands, the affection he has for her’s entirely familial, warm and fond, and when she steps forward and wraps an arm around him in a hug, he hugs her right back, and he watches Adust do the same when she pulls him in for one too. They both hold on tight. Hugs from Daisy are rarer than a million caps in the wasteland, and about a thousand times more valuable. When she pulls away, there’s nothing but warming assurance in her eyes, and she puts the pouch of caps into the big pocket of her winter coat.

“I’ll make sure it gets where it needs to go, don’t you fret. If you come back in time, I can arrange to have you follow the caravan back. It’ll be good for Duncan to have his dad home for the holidays.” Daisy says, nodding, before turning her sharp gaze to Adust. “And you. You’d better come back alive, or so help me god, I’ll raise you from the dead and kill you myself.”

A small laughs comes out of Adust at that, and Daisy grins the same time MacCready does. “I’m not planning on going anywhere else, anytime soon.” Adust assures her.

“That’s the spirit, sugar. Now both of you stay here, think I’ve got a few things that’ll help you two out.”

In the end, the ‘few things’ turns out to be some medical supplies (gauze, rubbing alcohol, an amusingly tiny bandaid), some ammo for both of their sniper rifles, and what looks like molerat jerky wrapped in an old edition of Publick Occurrences. Daisy sees them out the gate, and then they’re off, making their way down the dark, cold streets of the Commons, MacCready chewing through the molerat jerky that feels and tastes more like sweaty leather, Adust quiet beside him, but not in an uncomfortable way.

“Are you going home?” Adust asks, suddenly, quiet. Through the ringing quiet of the pre-dawn wasteland, it sounds as loud as an echo. “After all this?”

MacCready pauses his efforts to try and chew through the chunk of molerat jerky he’s taken three minutes to bite off, and then he shrugs and cheeks it. “I’m gonna try. But first, we have to find Kellogg and  _your_  boy.”

He hears the slow exhale there, but nothing else for awhile. MacCready forces himself to swallow the jerky in his mouth, feeling it scratch down his throat, and he immediately wraps it back up and shoves it in his coat pocket. Screw eating that. He’ll probably have better luck making it into shoes or something, or armour for when they face Kellogg.

“Do you... Do you think Shaun would like it here?” Adust speaks up, all of a sudden. Still quiet, and careful.

MacCready peers at Adust beside him. Frowns a little. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean. Out here. In the Commonwealth. With me.” Adust says. Hesitant. A small, bitter laugh comes from his lips, and MacCready’s frown deepens. “Shaun was taken from me before I ever had a chance to really raise him. And, now. I... Now I have to raise him in the  _wasteland_. I don’t know if I’m capable. Don’t know if — don’t know if he’d even  _like_  me. He doesn’t even know who I  _am._ Mac, what if he hates me?”

There’s... No real response to that.

MacCready racks his brain for something good to say. Something comforting, something nice, something placating, and absolutely nothing that he’s actually good at saying. Chews his lip in frustration when he comes up with absolutely nothing, because — because he’s still not great at this kind of thing, okay? Being comforting. All he’s got going for him are whatever he’s personally experienced, whatever he actually believes, thrown roughly together in a string of words and he doesn’t know if it’s enough. He doesn’t have a hammer to flatten out whatever insecurities Adust has with him. He’s just not that kind of guy.

In the end, he goes with whatever comes to his head, and he just says, “Sanctuary’d be a good place.”

Adust’s footsteps falter, before they pick up again. “What?”

“Sanctuary. We —  _you_ , you helped dig up and put in the water pumps with Preston. Plenty of clean flow. Got plenty of crops planted after we took down some things, made room. Houses being built. Forests outside of the place has tons of radstag.” MacCready shrugs, making his voice as flat as he can so it doesn’t sound as clueless as he feels. “Got turrets set up for defense, and there’s not a whole bunch of possible raider dens too close by. Generators up and running, more traders coming by. It’s already pretty nice. Peaceful. Would be a good place, you know. To raise a kid, here in the wastes.”

( It’s true. MacCready won’t admit it to anyone’s face, not after all his whining when he first got there, but. He really  _has_  gotten pretty used to the settlement, after living there a month. The location’s nice, and the place itself has so much potential. He’d helped build that place up, same as Adust, had had his own fingers in the dirt to plant the mutfruit with Marcy Long, had joined Sturges on morning hunts to bring in radstag, had helped Adust dismantle rusty old pre-war beds to turn the bedframes into something  _useful_. The place is tiny  _now_ , but it’s building up momentum, expanding rapidly, and with him and Adust running to jump up the numbers of the minutemen, help’s only gonna come in easier, if only the new members would start contributing  _back._

And of course, he’s thought about Duncan, there. Of course, it’s only an idle thought, obviously — it’ll be a huge shift from the Capital Wasteland to the Commonwealth, and MacCready doesn’t even really have a home, here. But it’s still a thought he has, about Duncan. How he’d like it there, with hills and trees to climb and streams to dip his feet in, watching the radstag weave between trees in the cold light of morning. He thinks about the clean air, the warm beds, thinks about teaching Duncan how to core and juice mutfruit, thinks about teaching him how to hunt for radstag out in the woods outside Sanctuary and teaching him how to cook them.

His mind says  _Lucy_ , and his heart clenches.

Yeah. Sanctuary’d be a good place to have a family. )

“... Maybe we could rebuild the old playground.” Adust says, quietly, jolting MacCready out of his own thoughts. His voice sounds faraway. Thinking, wistful. “Could turn his old bedroom into something nicer.”

MacCready looks at him, and finds himself cracking a small smile at Adust’s growing one. Just a little. “Wouldn’t be too hard. Could put up a tire swing on one of the bigger trees.”

“He’s... He’d be older now, so maybe we could build it together. Redecorate. The house could use a renovation, maybe.” Adust says, dreamlike.  _Hopeful_ , in the smallest of ways, and MacCready, for once, feels proud of  _Adust_  for that. “Do kids in the Commonwealth still like toys?”

“Well  _duh_.” MacCready says, rolling his eyes. “Duncan freaks out whenever I bring home something new. Got him a worn out action figure of Grognak once and he played with it until the arms popped off.”

Adust laughs, and MacCready grins. Deep in his heart, he knows Duncan hasn’t played with that Grognak in a long, long while, not since he’d gotten so sick he was barely breathing in bed. But now? With everything MacCready’s earned, with all of Joseph and Angela’s care, Duncan’s getting better. He  _is_. And it’s the warmest thing in the world, knowing that Duncan’ll be playing with that cruddy action figure again, soon, and MacCready will be coming home, with a whole bag of new toys for Duncan to play with, if he can possibly afford it.

Now, MacCready just has to look out for the man beside him, who’s coming out of the ground two hundred years later, lost in the wasteland but still wanting to look for a kid who may not even know who he is. Just has to watch the back of this guy, who despite everything still hasn’t given up hope, who’s still, somehow, chugging along. Who still wants to build a tire swing, who still wants to get toys, for the son he hasn’t met in maybe a decade.

They can do it. MacCready’s confident, now. They’ll find Kellogg with his pants down and kick his ass, and they’ll find Shaun and take him home. Then both he and Adust can go back. Can be with their kids like they’re supposed to, raise their boys like they’ve always wanted. They can do  _right_  by their families, and they can do right by themselves.

“You really think we can do this.” Adust replies, gradually. Not really a question. “That I — that we can really save Shaun.”

And MacCready thinks,  _yeah_. He thinks  _obviously_ _, you horse’s ass._

Instead, he only lightly nudges Adust’s shoulder with his own, and grins when Adust turns to look at him.

“Hey,” MacCready says, “Quit worrying. You’ve got me in your corner.”

And it’s a beat and a breath or two, just quiet, shoulders still barely touching, before he hears Adust again. A smile in the guy’s voice that makes MacCready’s own lips twitch up, in a good way.

“Yeah,” Adust breathes. “I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the definitely-not-gay friendship montage we've all been waiting for. or at least what i've been waiting for. this is the closest thing i've got to fluff on this slow burn and i fucken ran with it.
> 
> also i really should've stated this out before but i've been receiving such nice fanart for this fic and i'm fricken HONOURED. this fic and self indulgent otp in itself has literally saved my life on more than one occasion, and knowing folks like it as much as i do (or at least somewhat) and some people liking it enough to make _fanart_ over it, it's just. WILD to me. amazing. anyway, here they are
> 
> [these](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/158996040615/deaconidolizesyou-keycchan-hi-i-drew-this-for-u) [three](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/159363716505/deaconidolizesyou-this-is-like-half-the-drawing) [AMAZING](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/161083939735/hi-key-welcome-back-from-hiatus-i-drew-this-for) pics were drawn by tumblr user deaconidolizesyou and, just. it touches me so fucking much. UNENDING thanks to you, and also for this [cat pic.](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/159435723065/deaconidolizesyou-deaconidolizesyou)
> 
> and recently, fantastic user whatshappeningcowboy blessed me with [this glorious thing](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/163192221130/mutfruitart-little-gift-for-keycchan-sole) and i'm so JAZZED about it
> 
> speaking of, they're also writing a m!ss/maccready multichapter fic called [Chivalry.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9716123/chapters/21916754) please give it a gander if you could (though it is explicit, mind mind) and throw em some kudos and comments. it makes u that much cooler.
> 
> check me out as keycchan on tumblr if you want More Content! thanks in advance for reading, and for any kudos and comments that you leave that could bring you +1 step closer to becoming The Coolest.
> 
> EDIT: 22 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	9. so far down / away from the sun again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust finds the finish line at a price, and MacCready holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for very heavy suicidal ideation. Take care of yourself.**

“I fffff _fff —_ heckin’  _swear_ , next time another molerat pops out of nowhere, I’m gonna shove a mine into it’s  _gut_  and send it back to it’s colony and blow all of ‘em out of the dirt.”

Adust manages to chuckle. “I don’t think it works that way, looney toons.”

MacCready shoots him a withering look. “I don’t know what that is, but  _you_  come up with a better plan, then, genius.”

Adust smiles, under his mask. MacCready kicks the body of a molerat aside, leaving a small smudge of blood on his boot, and they keep walking. They’re already a couple of hours away from where they’d left Goodneighbour, had left city limits and towards the open roads, dead trees on dirt paths, still waters with hovering insects that Adust takes a wide berth around. There’s a road down to Fort Hagen, but he has it marked on his pip-boy, and it’ll be faster if they head cross-country, though they’ll still avoid any fights along the way. Last thing they need is to get injured or exhausted before even finding the big bad.

Beside him, MacCready seems happy enough to not have to run through anything dangerous himself, though the molerats were a hassle for them both. Adust’s glad that he’s chosen to bring along extra guns — he can’t rely on his sniper rifle for every single encounter they have to go up against, can’t go wasting precious .308s on molerats.

He’s brought along a 10mm for that reason, silenced, with MacCready having a similar one on the man’s belt. In his pack he has the shotgun he’d gotten back from Nick, some frags that he hopes he won’t have to use, and the Minutemen signal flare that Preston had given him a long while back, carried around just in case. Beside him, he sees MacCready toting his own rifle, but his pistol hangs on his belt and Adust knows he’s got a switchblade on his person somewhere, the same knife that MacCready’d used to end Winlock. It’s almost poetic, somehow, if not just a trophy.

Adust drums his fingers against his rifle, tap-tap-tapping, cold fingers in the winter afternoon. He wishes he’d worn more layers, but there’s only so much he can wear before he’ll have to waddle. At least the sun is being kind to them and shining warmly, so he tries to take in as much of it as he can. Tries to relax, as much as he’s able.

They’re only a few more hours from Kellogg. He needs to  _relax_.

At least MacCready is helping out in that aspect. Not quite talking, but having MacCready by his side is enough. Shoulder to shoulder, both of them travelling down the same road, wrapped in multiple layers to keep the cold off their backs, hiking across the paths side by side. Good, comfortable.  _Safe_ , beside each other, sharing warmth by standing close and talking. Good conversation is enough, at times, to take the mind away off of the chill that sneaks into their bones.

( Guiltily, he wishes he could turn back time to  _yesterday_. That was a change. A  _good_  one, one that’s been a long time coming. A well deserved break. Target practice on the roof and stupid little bets that didn’t even matter, and the roughhousing that followed after, he remembers with breathless laughter, tangled hair, exhilirating. The dirty comment from the guard that’d made Adust’s face  _heated_ , though MacCready either didn’t seem to get it, or care.

He hasn’t relaxed like that in... A while. A long, long while. Hadn’t managed to laugh like that ever since before — well. Before the bombs, before Jennifer was taken from him. In his mind, it’s only been over a month, but his heart feels all the two hundred years he’s gone without her, and all the grief after.

Yesterday was... Good.

On Arturo’s rooftop. Sprawled across cold metal, bellies full of warmth, stolen nuka cola off to the side — and it’d given him the smallest thrill, all over again, it’s been so long since he’s done that sort of thing — and Adust had felt his insecurities bubble to the surface, rearing their ugly heads in the quiet thrum of Diamond City and oddly brave after the day’s excursions had knocked down the quiet from Adust’s mouth, enough that he’d said them aloud. His fears. Whether they could even  _do_  it, saving Shaun. Taking out Kellogg. He wants to believe it, but it's hard. There’s too many unknown variables. Too much potential for false hopes, even though the hope's already there.

And MacCready had squirmed a little, sure — has never been good at handling any of this with any kind of grace — but he took those insecurities and squashed them down. Hadn’t completely erased them, of course, Adust doesn’t expect MacCready to fix him or anything, but MacCready had told him what he felt about it, was honest about it, and.

It was comforting. It was. And if Adust were honest, were to speak it aloud, he’d admit that he gathered a little bit of strength from it. A bit more resolve. Hope. Determination, to make whatever this partnership is between them to work.

It’s been over two hundred years, after all, since Adust’s had any friends to his name. )

The fort isn’t too long away. Going cross country means cutting down on the time they’d need if they took the roads, though it means getting interrupted by other hostilities along the way. Mostly insects, that Adust is readily and shamelessly going to admit that he leaves mostly to MacCready, and ferals on the bridge, hidden behind long abandoned vehicles, which he takes out in return (he sees the look in MacCready’s eyes whenever they’re cramped somewhere and ferals crawl out. He doesn’t know what it means, but if MacCready can tolerate Adust’s hatred for bugs, Adust can more than understand a hatred for ghouls popping out of nowhere in a limited space. They  _lunge_ , after all.)

And in between it all, the nervous energy grows. The cold, gnawing feeling of anxiety that’s been growing since he first realized that this is it, this is  _it_ , Kellogg’s so close in his grasp and his son along the way. And now that they’re actually closing in, every step bringing them closer towards the small, blinking dot on his marked pip-boy map, it burns through his system, like cold fire, spreading from the centre of his chest and outwards in sickening waves. MacCready’s words only do so much to distract him, the farther along they go.

He kicks some concrete off the road as the worry gnaws. Adust is excited for it, or he wants to be. But more than anything else, he  _worries_. This will be the first time meeting his son, all over again. His baby boy who isn’t a baby anymore, an entire childhood Adust’s missed. And he doesn’t know what Shaun is like, these days. What he likes, what he dislikes, whether he has his mother’s passion, or his father’s adaptability, or — and god forbid — he’s taken up anything after Kellogg, which seems more and more likely considering the mercenary’s seemed to have been  _raising_  his kid, for reasons Adust still hasn’t figured out.

Now,  _that_... That makes something  _else_  burn in Adust’s chest. Something cold, something that resembles bitterness, something like  _anger,_ beneath all the nerves that’re encompassing his system. Anger, because it’s  _unfair_ , because he’s worked  _so hard_ , in his old life, to make his dreams a reality. Had worked so hard, had thrown himself through war and blood and death, had shoved himself so far back into the closet he can still smell the musk of mothballs and dust — just so that he could have a family. Be with someone he loved, even if it wasn’t the kind of love he was hoping for. Raise his child, like he’s always wanted. But a bomb took it away, took the world away, took his best friend and his family away, and Kellogg didn't  _need_ to shoot Jennifer but he did and now he's been wandering free, all these years, raising a child that Adust has loved since before Kellogg walked this earth.

Beyond the sadness that clouds his mind and the grief that keeps him quiet, he’s fucking  _furious_  about it.

It shows, when a feral comes lunging out of a small metal shack across the bridge. He jolts, and MacCready’s hand flies to his rifle, but Adust’s quicker and he cracks the butt of his rifle across it’s head before shooting it, sending the insides of it’s head splattered across the ground. He thinks, maybe, a few hundred years ago, he might have been a little squicked about it. Would have at least turned his stomach a little, a month or so ago. He thinks MacCready’s looking at him weird. Maybe concerned. Adust just tries to breathe.

They keep walking, making a steady pace, but not over-tiring themselves with it, and it isn’t too long after that when Adust spots the edges of the fort appearing over the slowly darkening horizon.

“Is that it?” MacCready asks, beside him, spotting it too. Squinting in the distance.

“Yeah.” Adust forces, from between a choked throat, and fidgets. “Fort Hagen.”

He isn’t ready for this. He is so, so,  _so_  underprepared for this, and the gnawing ice in his heart almost makes him stop, almost makes him want to turn around and  _run_. Because even more than the already existing dread of fighting  _Kellogg_ , who’s already apparently every mercenary’s public enemy number one, there’s — there’s Shaun.

There’s Shaun, and Adust is afraid, because he doesn’t know what Shaun is like now. He’s afraid of what he’ll find. He’s afraid that Shaun will hate him, won’t want to go with him. He’s afraid Shaun will be disappointed in the truth, in  _Adust_ , for about a thousand reasons that’s already running through his brain. For not coming sooner, for coming at all, for being unable to save or protect him and his mother, for not being good enough, for not being able to give him  _enough_ , including the world that he’s missed out on. It’s almost enough to make him shake.

(  _Coward_ , his mind sneers.  _You’re a terrible father._ )

“Damn it,” MacCready suddenly says, beside him, and Adust twitches in surprise as he snaps back to the world. “We’ve got turrets. Looks like that’s the place, alright. You okay?”

MacCready’s tone changes, just a slight, at the last question, and Adust is grateful for how MacCready’s concern is kept casual, because he has a guilty, guilty feeling that if he were given the chance to back out, he just might. It makes him feel like chickenshit, but the anxiety of all the unknowns, the maybes — it’s terrifying. For the moment, he’s never hated himself more.

But MacCready’s looking at him. He can feel it. And when he dares to glance to the side, he  _sees_  it — piercing blue eyes, beneath the shadow of the bill of his worn green cap, the sun above throwing contrasts on MacCready’s sharp features, highlighting the smudges of dirt on his nice nose and defined cheekbones. Mouth thin-lipped in concern, but Adust realizes there’s no pity in those eyes. Just concern, and maybe a little bit of dread, too, at the prospect of dealing with an enemy so widely known that even Nick Valentine advises against it all. That even the Gunners know not to mark this particular tree.

 _You’ve got me in your corner_ , MacCready had said.

And he doesn’t know when he’s gotten this used or this attached to having this man by his side, but he thinks;  _thank god._

“I’m okay.” Adust finally replies, even though he knows that MacCready knows he’s not. MacCready, at least, doesn’t point it out. “How many turrets, do you think?”

“I see three already from here, man.” MacCready frowns, turning back to Fort Hagen. Adust can see what he’s talking about — standard turrets, whirring along the roof of the building. They haven’t spotted either of them yet, but they’ll need to take them out before it shoots them full of lead. “Probably more around the other side. Ten caps say he probably set up base in there, wouldn’t put so many up otherwise.”

 _Traps, turrets._  Adust’s mind lists. Things they need to watch out for. Probably turrets on the inside too, maybe even mines. They’ll need to be extra vigilant. They have to be, if they’re planning on coming out again in one piece and breathing, come tomorrow. And hopefully,  _hopefully_ , with Shaun in tow, and the same way.

“We’ll get him back.” MacCready suddenly says. Adust stills. Turns, just slightly, to look at MacCready, and feels something in his chest clench warm at blue eyes staring off into the distance. Mouth pursed tight, determined. Strong.

Adust wonders if MacCready’s thinking of him or his own son, here. 

Adust finds that it doesn’t really matter.

“It’s you and me.” His mouth moves before he can stop it, the words coming quiet, but just audible to the man beside him. It almost heats the back of his neck, but the words feel like home on his tongue. “You and me.”

And he just barely manages to catch MacCready half-smirking, just a little, before he does the same. “Damn straight.”

His heart lightens, just minutely, and he lifts the rifle and the scope to his eyes while his hands are still steady, and he shoots the first bullet into the turret in the distance.

 

* * *

 

 

MacCready fires another round into the last turret, turning his head away in time to avoid the wave of heat as it goes up in fire and pieces, and Adust ducks away to the side to hit the pair of basement-style doors that lead into the fort. The front of the place had been completely barricaded and sealed up when the two of them finally walked up to it, though it didn’t take them long to head up the side construction walkways and onto the roof.

( “Probably thought the turrets’d be enough to wipe us out.” MacCready had snorted, as they’d walked up earlier, looking almost huffy. “He’s lookin’ down on us.”

And Adust had thought,  _yes, please._ Because the more Kellogg underestimates them, the more the likelihood that they can catch him by surprise. The more the likelihood that they can get through this  _alive_ , and rescue Shaun. How your enemies perceive you plays such a massive role in the fight — Adust hopes, and prays, that Kellogg thinks that they’re weak. That he’s not worth proper defenses. That Kellogg will let his guard down. Catching Kellogg off guard would be their best case scenario. )

“We heading in, boss?” MacCready says, coming up beside him, tugging the brim of his hat more firmly over his head. “You ready?”

Adust turns and looks at MacCready, watches stormy blue eyes stare into the milky-haze of his gasmask’s lens, and he thinks  _no_. He thinks  _I can’t do this._  He thinks  _I’m not ready at all_.

“Yeah.” He says, instead, feeling the ice of his fears spreading like fractals through his system, and he cracks open the doors before they can paralyze him.

He tries his best to keep quiet as he climbs down the ladder leading to what looks like a storeroom, years of training to keep himself effectively soundless coming into play. There isn’t a single sound when he drops to the floor, covered in a layer of dust from centuries of disuse, and he immediately checks his pip-boy for the map, letting the technology he knows nothing about scan the place and show him where he has to go. 

Above him, MacCready’s stealth lacks what Adust has, but it’s still quiet, as MacCready shuts the doors as slow as he can, gentle, and heads down the steps, touching down and moving to the other side of the door. Alert, vigilant, and glancing between Adust and the ruins beyond the door. It’s the same look, one Adust recognizes from himself, like it was when they were taking on the Gunners — it’s the look that says  _you lead, and I’ll follow_. Waiting, for instruction to head forward.

Adust had placed his trust in MacCready’s direction, up on the risk of Mass Pike. Now it’s MacCready’s turn to put that trust back.

The fort seems almost echoingly, painfully empty, the whole building going a little dimmer when MacCready shut the roof doors. Barely a sound beyond the ringing silence and their breathing, and Adust’s pip-boy registers nothing, though hard-learnt lessons have taught the both of them that his never necessarily means a good thing. And right now, they’re in the lion’s den, walking right into it’s gaping, bloody maw. If they’re lucky, there shouldn’t be anyone or anything else here. If they’re lucky, Kellogg may think them so inept and weak that there won’t be any defenses.

The thought is immediately shattered the second Adust’s pip-boy gives a little  _click_  as he switches screens to check the time, and a cold, robotic voice suddenly comes from the hallway a little ahead of them, “Is someone present?”

His blood turns to  _ice_.

He’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry.

Optimism’s never done anything but hurt him.

MacCready’s face in front of him contorts into what looks simultaneously like fear and frustration, brows furrowed tight and teeth clenched, and then the man mouths the word  _synth_ , and whatever left of Adust’s hopes that maybe,  _maybe_ , this wouldn’t be too hard, gets dashed and tossed right into the fire. Fucking  _synths_. He’s never fought one before, but if Nick Valentine is any indication, they might just be a little screwed.

And then there’s the fear. A  _realization_. Confirmation of a fear he wish wasn't there.

 _Of course, the Institute’s involved._  

The boogeyman he’s only ever heard of, so far, though he’s met it’s creations before in the forms of Nick Valentine and the unfortunate people-copies that got caught and shot, like Sammy in Goodneighbour. All the horror stories come rushing back to Adust in gale-force gusts that threaten to knock him off his feet, the air out of his lungs, and suddenly breathing seems a little harder to do. And suddenly this mission becomes even  _more_  fear-inducing than ever before. More questions raised, and it makes him want to freeze on the spot.

 _Be careful of them, Blue,_  Piper had said.  _Maybe they’re using Shaun for experimentation,_  she’d let slip before.

The facts: Kellogg is in here. So are synths. So is his son.

The Institute is involved.

This just may be the most scared he’s been, since he’d first left the vault.

But he can’t stop now. They’re already inside, they’re already  _so close_ , and it hasn’t stopped him before. Fear, grief — none of it’s stopped him from getting things done before. And while it’s so,  _so_  different, this time, because it’s synths, because it’s  _Kellogg_ , because it’s  _Shaun  —_  he can’t let it stop him from finishing this. His thoughts, from before, from all this while, comes back, especially now when the finish line is so close, especially now when his hope’s turned to fear and his heart’s turned to ice.

 _Do it for Jennifer,_  his mind echoes.  _Do it for yourself, for Shaun_.

Beside him, MacCready’s looking out the door, rifle already trained and ready. And in his mind, Adust realizes, abruptly, and guiltily late, a sucker punch of horrendous remorse  — MacCready has a child too. Had told Adust last night, even, about the sick son he’s been working hard to care for. The son that all of MacCready’s caps went to, the son that’s only starting to get better.

( Adust’d been surprised. Had even been... Offended, a little, in his disbelief, it’s never even come up before, but in hindsight, even that was understandable. Would be unwise to bring up family when you live a life hunting people who might hunt you back, and everyone you love. Or maybe just out of unthinking courtesy to a friend — mentioning his kid, while Adust’s own is still out there, somewhere, in the wastes. But last night MacCready had talked about it, and it meant trust. Camaraderie.  _Partnership_ , a team, because that’s what they are now, what they’ve been, even if it’s taken them awhile to take notice. )

MacCready has his own son, and yet he’s still putting his life on the line here, to fight with Adust. MacCready has a  _family_ , waiting elsewhere, his son only just getting better and probably a loving,  _lucky_ wife and who knows who else, and he’s still here with Adust, instead. Willing to fight by his side based on nothing but misplaced gratitude, because  _MacCready_  was thankful to  _Adust_ , for indirectly helping his recovering son, for helping him, and Adust had bitten down on the urge to tell him  _you, you, it’s all you, your choice to follow me, our joint effort, I didn’t do anything_.

MacCready talked about his son’s illness. Adust had seen it — the hurt in those eyes, the grimace of bad memories, the determination of the fact that his son will get  _better_. And all the while still managing to tell Adust of the good things Adust’s done, even though Adust wants to say he hasn’t done much at all. Not nearly enough to deserve this sort of  _kindness_ , that MacCready doesn’t even know, isn’t even  _aware_  that he’s giving. For someone who claims to be difficult to get along with, for someone who almost takes pride in being sharp tongued and hard-shelled, bristling like a feral cat when approached by others, MacCready is  _kind_ , is  _good_ , in a way that Adust seldom sees, and the guilt almost drowns him, because it feels like he’s using MacCready. Leading him on, somehow, some way.

 _Just keep him alive_ , Adust’s mind says,  _keep him alive, give him every cap you earn here and send him home where he belongs. With his family, his wife and son. That’s how you can repay him. That’s what you can do right now._

Adust’s resolve tightens, even though he knows it’s a fragile thing. But it’ll be enough to get him through. He’s fought wars, he’s been through bloody battle.

When the first synth rounds the corner, searching and armed, he clears his mind as best he can. Thinks about the battlefield. Thinks about  _Shaun_.

The first synth’s head gets blown  _clean off_  in a spray of sparks, and then the battle begins.

The sound of footsteps come up live and loud, right towards them. His pip-boy lights up dozens and dozens of red dots, his heart races, teeth clenched and body on edge as adrenaline comes coursing through him. The synths come running in, robotic voices loudly declaring his and MacCready’s presences, and he barely registers MacCready’s barely bitten-back curses as the synths lift their rifles and pistols and start firing, bright blue and smelling heavily of ozone. A shot barely misses him, and he grits his teeth and aims for the heads.

The synths aren’t like the people-copies he’s seen shot down on the streets of settlements — they’re more mechanical, plastic skin and metal skeleton showing through whenever his shots land, and they all wear a familiar face of a friend that unnerves him as he shoots them down. And fighting against them is a quick learning curve — they have incredible hearing and sensors, increased aim and strength, and a pain tolerance of possible infinity. But, at the very least, one thing is still the same — shoot at them enough and they’ll still go down. As long as he and MacCready can keep them at a distance, it works just like any other firefight, and this time, there’s plenty of places to take cover, unlike the mess at Mass Pike.

( Adust tries to ignore how they look like. Fighting against robots is one thing — he’s seen lines of troops in T-51 power armour in his time in the military, and  _that_  was scary. He’s seen soldiers covered in blood and gore, bullets flying by him and the people he’s supposed to protect, he’s seen enemy soldiers speaking the language of his blood but aiming for his head and then not being able to decide what he’s more scared of: the enemies firing at him or his own teammates abandoning him for it. _That_ was scary. He's seen the looks in the eyes of people who look at him and see only red, only see  _the enemy_ , even as a child, has seen the way they looked at Jennifer and her mother and seen the camps that the government had made for people just like them. That was  _terrifying._

Seeing these synths isn’t what unnerves him.

It’s the fact that they look exactly like Nick. Or rather, he’s sure, Nick looks like  _them_  because he was them, but got his own sentience. It’s not enough to squick Adust off, not enough to make him feel even the slightest bit of remorse taking them down — but still, everytime he manages to get one in the head, he sees Nick’s face being blown away. It’s like he’s stepping over the corpses of clones of his friend.)

The synths, are at least, predictable. They’re head-on, never running or hesitating, lacking the human twitches of raiders or Gunners. Makes them easier to aim for, though they’re resilient bullet sponges, soaking up to a dozen bullets before finally falling, a waste of precious ammo. After the first floor of nothing but, he’s quick to catch on how they work and how they fight, and he’s sure MacCready does too, judging by how fast they sync up. And maybe that’s another thing, how fast he and MacCready have learnt to work to each other’s rhythm, partners in arms, and if it were any other time, he might have even smiled about it.

But right now, he has no time to smile, and neither does MacCready, who doesn’t make a single comment. Too busy fighting, and Adust’s system is too filled, overwhelmed with keeping up with everything else to even bother thinking about trying for a conversation. Everytime they think they have a few seconds of a breather, his pip-boy keeps lighting up, and more synth voices come over the echoing hallways, haunting and scary and then it’s back to the shooting. Over, and over, and over.

( Where is Shaun? Where’s Kellogg? )

What the mindless synths lack in creativity and proper combat experience, they make up for in numbers, and resilience. Everytime he takes one down after wasting dozens of bullets on it, two more seem to pop out of nowhere, or appear from around the corner, and at some point both her and MacCready switch their rifles out for their 10mms, conserving precious ammo. He’s starting to see how dangerous these synths are, out in the Commonwealth, how they can tear down settlements — farmers can only defend so much before they’re overwhelmed.

Adust doesn’t find the time to think. Shoves it back into his mental vault, focuses on shooting, ducking behind cover, aiming where it hurts. Dodges the shots as best he can, the worst of the damage soaked up by the armour he wears. He works on autopilot, willing himself not to think, just shoot, just bring the synths down, just go through every door until everything’s clear. Root out everything. Search for Kellogg. Search for  _Shaun_.

( Pretends his heart doesn’t drop, every room he picks open and doesn’t find a trace of either of them. )

It takes its toll, after awhile. Each shot starting to ring in his ears, and catching laserfire with his armour but singeing his jacket, each pulse of blue striking him in a way that knocks the air from his lungs, in a way that he’ll know when he takes off his clothes after this he’ll open up to a garden of ugly bruises, blooming like flowers, dust smudged across blue and purple and yellow. But he doesn’t stop. Not for a second.

He shoots, and shoots, and shoots, and it feels like hours even though he knows it barely has been, his adrenaline being the only thing that drowns out the background noise of his body yelling at him to just  _rest_ , for two seconds. He doesn’t know how much ammo he has left. But he keeps moving, keeps shooting, doesn’t look back once. He isn’t great at fighting upfront, but under this sort of pressure, where everything else around him in the world blurs into the most hostile of tunnel vision — he doesn’t have a choice but to push, push, push.

He rounds corners. Ducks behind ruined walls of a life long gone, dust and ozone in the air and he shoots until his hands burn, shake, bruise, until his 10mm runs out of bullets and he’s forced to go back to his rifle. The world goes dark around the edges — he focuses on nothing beside what’s right in front of him, something he hates to do but is forced to, because if he takes the time to slow down and think, if he takes the time to watch his surroundings and absorb everything, his fear might just get the best of him. His head might just  _win_ , and he can’t have that, not now, not so close.

But as they clear out each room, one by one, whatever stability he had up on the roof fades until it’s almost completely gone. Whatever inner strength now just barely tethered to him as tiredness takes the place of his willpower. His nerves are fraying, hard and sparking, because there isn’t a trace of Shaun or Kellogg  _anywhere_. Just synths, so many synths, and as they get a brief moment of respite to head down towards the basement, Adust feels the startling realization that he’s on the verge of crying again, tears of frustration and anxiety prickling hot and unwanted at the back of his eyes. Knows he’s  _trembling_ , a little, either from the adrenaline or from his own headspace.

Because what if this is just a killtrap? What if Kellogg had lured them here on purpose, knowing an Institute occupied area or something, and lured them here just so they’d be so exhausted by the end of things they’d die before they could get out? Before Adust realized everything’s for nothing? The thought of it scares him, knowing Kellogg has such an upper hand, and —

The loudspeaker above them suddenly  _crackles_  to life, and Adust nearly jumps out of his skin, MacCready jolting the same. His hands fly to his rifle before he even thinks, and the loudspeaker sparks a bit before a voice comes through.

His heart  _drops_ , and it feels like there’s a sliver of glass caught in his throat.

“ _Well, if it isn’t my frozen friend_.” The voice over the loudspeaker crackles. Calm, but almost mocking in it’s stability. “ _About time you thawed out. Only took you, what. A month and a half_?”

Adust’s stomach  _flips_ , clenches, and just the  _sound_  of Kellogg’s voice again makes new fear burst under his ribcage, making his heart race ugly inside him and thrumming in his ears. All the voice reminds him of is the cold hiss of a cryo pod opening, the sound of Shaun crying,  _let the boy go_  —  _I’m not giving you Shaun_  —  _at least we still have the backup_   —

It makes him feel  _sick_ , it makes him want to run. And beyond that — the cold, cold burning of his anger coming back like waves lapping up against rocks. Crashing, and overwhelming him. Everything, everything, all at once, and he feels harsh static in his skull like steel wool crammed through his ears and he almost doesn’t hear MacCready, drowned out by the incoherent screaming in his mind.

“Assh  —  _hhhh_ eck.” MacCready hisses beside him, barely biting back the cuss, and Adust twitches in surprise at the aggression. “He’s  _messing_  with us.”

The speaker crackles to life again.

“ _Where’s your little boy, then_?”

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he squeezes the trigger and  _fires_  the damn thing off the wall, sparks flying in it’s place as the speaker hits the ground and fizzles out of life. His ears are ringing; he’s breathing hard — and then he hears an ugly, cold chuckle from further down, and he doesn’t realize his feet are moving until he nearly skids into the wall while rounding the corner, mind almost blanking completely until he slips and hits the wall shoulder-first, and he nearly bites his own tongue off. His mind’s almost completely static, now, angry, exhausted and  _terrified_ , though the desperation’s almost entirely taken over.

(  _I’m not giving you Shaun!_  He remembers Jennifer screaming. Angry tears coursing down her face, her fingers clutched tight in the baby blue space blanket they’d wrapped their baby boy in before they left their home.

He remembers a single drop of her blood, lazily streaming from the gunshot wound in her forehead, dripping and staining the baby blue.

 _He won’t have him_ , Adust swears, in his mind,  _he won’t take him away again, I promise, I promise_. )

MacCready’s bounding up to him in seconds, and Adust stands before a metal door, shoulders heaving with exhaustion and each heavy breath. The sound of Kellogg’s voice, rough and calm and  _aggravating_  in all it is, it echoes in Adust’s mind and he thinks —  _he’s somewhere in here. Further down, he has to be he must be Kellogg is watching us somehow._

“He’s watching us.” Adust manages to get out, and he almost doesn’t even recognize his own voice, how harsh it is, rough with exhaustion and  _burning_  with cold rage. It doesn’t sound like him at all. “He can’t be far.”

“We’ll get him.” MacCready bites out, a  _statement._

The only thing standing between him and his boy again is this arrogant  _murderer_ , and by god, if anything will stop him from giving Kellogg what he’s due.

MacCready’s by his side as they approach the door and open it, the thing unlocked. Adust spots the tesla trap before the door even fully clicks open — and lightning bolts of electricity start striking out around them, MacCready jolting back, and Adust frowning hard beneath his mask, but counting. These things have a rhythm. And if he times it  _just_  right —

A brief window of a second happens without a spark, and Adust doesn’t offer any warnings before shoving MacCready forward and to the stairs on the other side, sending the mercenary wide-eyed and stumbling while Adust tries to make it through in the same window, dashing forward, right as the trap releases it’s last punch and strikes him right in the shoulder, and  _ignites_  his body with pain that makes him release a pained cry, hitting the ground, twitching as he grits his teeth through the pain.

“What the hell!” He hears MacCready running up to him, crouching down and wincing from the pain undoubtedly lancing through his leg, and Adust shakes his head rapidly.

“Had worse, I’ve had worse, it’ll fade soon, just — “ and he forces himself to prop himself up, “We have to go on, help me up, I — “

Adust doesn’t doubt the disbelief in MacCready’s eyes, but it’s true. He’s not a stranger to traps, and the shoulder guard took the brunt of it. He feels an arm wrap around his and haul him up, and even though the pain of the zap still echoes through his body, within moments, he’s stable enough to hold his rifle, taking his steps forward on his own. MacCready lets him. They have to push forward. They have to keep going.

Kellogg is here.  _Shaun_  is here.

They have to be. 

Adust can’t spare a thought for anything else.

His pip-boy registers movement and sound up ahead, and as they trace down the steps he can hear the whir of a turret. MacCready takes care of it, moving ahead and taking it out in two easy shots, sending it up in flames before Adust slips by him, opening up another door, wary of more traps but finding none.  _Little blessings_ , he thinks bitterly, and immediately flinches when the loudspeaker crackles on again, the walls suddenly echoing with the voice that makes Adust both want to run away, and also punch through walls.

“ _Just because you lost both your house and housemate doesn’t mean I’m interested in either. Leave, now_.” 

 _How fucking dare you_ , Adust’s mind spits, frothing, anger spilling over in the way he tightens his grip around his rifle,  _you, you and Vault-Tec took them from me, how dare you_  —

Adust’s mouth says  _like hell_  right as he hears MacCready murmur the same under his breath, and he opens the door to the command centre and tries not to think very hard as Kellogg keeps  _talking_. Mocking, in a calm sort of way, and Adust’s head clouds over with the sheer storm of emotions rocking him inside and out. He minutely realizes he’s shaking all over, but he just clenches his jaw and moves forward. Readies his gun as the sound of heavy robotic footsteps come, another wave of enemies for Adust to take, but they have to move forward.

They have to keep moving forward —

“ _Honestly, never thought you’d make it out of there. Plenty of guns in that vault, I’d know.Thought it’d be easier to put a bullet in your skull. Pretty brave of you, moving forward. Brave, but ultimately stupid. Waste of time_.”

Adust doesn’t let those words hurt him. If anything, he lets them seep in, lets them soak and  _fuel_  him — and in a world where he’s more spiteful, louder, maybe he’d even tell Kellogg back,  _I lived, I almost did but I lived, I wanted to die and I didn’t —_ but he isn’t, so he just continues down the steps, taking cover one one side of a gated doorway and MacCready taking the other as synths come down a crowded hallway. He just keeps quiet and keeps his aim steady, lets the words fuel the cold fire burning inside him, and when MacCready fires three bullets into the last synth’s skull, his shakes have subsided to just adrenaline-fueled trembling.

The door at the end’s locked, but there’s a side passage, and they duck through, weapons already raised and ready as the synths come pouring in. Ignores, the bruises and the shots. Above, Kellogg refuses to keep quiet.

“ _Look, I know you’re pissed. Out for my blood. But you’re not going to achieve what you think you are, today. Listen to me. Go. Home._ ”

Adust’s muscles are burning. They haven’t stopped, haven’t rested for a second since  _that voice_  came up over the speaker, and he’s trembling with the adrenaline and exhaustion in equal measure. He’ll be black and blue come the morning, if the sun ever rises for him again. But he doesn’t think of anything else. Can’t  _see_ anything else. The world is drowned out and dimmed around him, like a TV with it’s volume turned down low with radio static wide and shrieky in his ears, completely blocking out everything else except his goal, except what’s right in front of him, he can’t hear any other voice except the one mocking him from the walls.

He sees just dozens and dozens of metal hands reaching for him. Just bright pulses of blue. Just the falling bodies of things wearing his friend’s face, and the sound of his family’s taker laughing at him from the walls around him.

Adust fires six shots into a synth with a helmet. He gets laserfire to his calf that sears right through until his eyes water with the pain. Five more follow after that.

MacCready takes down the laser turrets like they’re nothing.

They keep moving.

“ _I understand what you’re going through. But you’re hardly the only one in the wastes who’s lost someone. Most of the time, revenge’s hardly ever worth it. Would be better to just head back and play with that puppy of yours_.”

Down in what looks like the kitchen area, a synth catches him off guard with a baton that makes his bones  _rattle_. He manages to swing his rifle up, catching the synth up the corner of it’s jaw with the butt of it, but it’s made of metal and wire instead of bone and blood and so it barely phases it, before it raises it’s elbow and  _slams_  it down on Adust’s head, a cry of pain ripping from his throat as a the baton comes right down at his side and the  _impact_  feels like he’s just been run over by a car.

It takes twelve bullets and MacCready’s knife up it’s wires before it goes down. His vision’s still swimming. He’s pretty sure he’s still bleeding. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t care, and doesn’t wait for MacCready to catch up to run forwards. Doesn't hear MacCready calling his name.

“ _You’ve got guts and determination. I almost admire you. But you’re biting off more than you can chew, I promise you. Go home. Not everyone gets that kind of option._ ”

A long curving hallway brings more synths their way. There’s static in his ears and he barely registers anything else beyond him besides ringing gunfire. But beyond that there’s nothing but anger beneath his gasmask, desperate and  _furious._ The synths get enough bullets to their bodies that they come apart in pieces, and even through the gasmask he feels as if he can smell it all, the ozone and the melting plastic and the steel and he’s tempted to cauterize his nose shut.

Adust can barely feel his hands — they’re numb from all the shooting. Strands of bloodied silver hair stick to the milky lens of his gasmask. They leave stains when he wipes them away. He faintly registers that there’s still some liquid trickling down the back of his neck, and the headache that’s growing, pulsing, pulsing, throbbing in his head with every thump of his heart, blood rushing in his ears. He doesn’t stop, though, not for a second. He’s almost certain he’ll sway and collapse if he does.

“ _Leave. Turn around, and leave. Before you do something you’ll regret. Before you do something your family’d be ashamed of._ ”

 _You took them away from me, asshole,_  Adust thinks, firing five rounds into the chest and head of a synth coming down the corridor. MacCready takes another synth down from behind, blowing out it’s mechanical knees before stomping a foot right at the neck, cracking the metal and letting it spark before it fizzes out of life. Adust doesn’t know how much time’s passed. Doesn’t know where they even  _are_ , beyond forward. They don’t stop for anything. Don’t bother to scavenge or loot. Don’t pass go, don’t collect the money.

A synth comes up from behind a wall, and Adust plants a bullet right in it’s eye, right as the same voice comes up over the speaker again, and —

“ _You know, she really was quite beautiful_.”

Adust  _freezes_.

“ _Seemed like a really loving mother, too. Wouldn’t let go of Shaun ‘til I put that shot in her head. I can admire that. Do you really think she’d want to see you like this_?”

He... Isn’t sure what sort of noise he makes after that, but it’s loud, louder than he’s ever been since the vault had spat him out,  _how dare you, how fucking dare you_ , it’s an ugly sound that rips from his throat and when the last synth in the room comes out from the corner, he puts a dozen more shots into it than he has to, hands  _burning_  from all the work, his vision  _actually_  tunneling and not just metaphorical anymore and then the world just —

starts

tipping —

“Hey!” He barely hears through the fuzz of his head, and hands come to grab him, digging in tight enough to hurt the bruises under his clothes and making him hiss. But the pain at least stops the darkness encroaching from the corners of his vision from spreading, and they lower him gently onto the floor, leaning against the wall. He sees two pairs of green pants. He may be seeing double.

He doesn’t want to sit. He has to keep moving. Kellogg is  _right there_.

“Quit squirming.” MacCready hisses — and oh, it’s MacCready — and those hands firmly put him down until he stops. Blue eyes intense, thin lips pursed, and Adust registers something in there his aching mind can’t name yet.

He definitely registers that he is, in fact, still bleeding from his headwound though. That’s a definite yes.

Sitting down does exactly as he fears — his body’s starting to register the break it’s finally taking, and his legs suddenly don’t want to work. Adust lolls his head a little, watching a droplet of blood slide it’s way and leaving a red path down one of his lenses, and he doesn’t realize MacCready’s uncapped a stim until he feels the needle in the flesh of his neck, wincing as cold liquid enters his system, and he can  _feel_  his skin and flesh start to knit. His head starts clearing. He wants to lie down. He wants to run. He doesn’t know.

He wants to shoot Kellogg. He knows _that_ , at least.

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t spoken a word until MacCready huffs in front of him, on his knees. “I’m doing abso-freaking-lutely fine, thanks for asking.”

“I’m sorry.” Adust says. Finds it coming out of him broken, clipped. And he feels it, the sudden exhaustion of the past… god, he doesn’t know how long they’ve been here, but he feels it all at once as he finally catches a breather. He hates it, almost as much as he hates all these synths that are a pain and a half to take down. Hates it almost as much as he hates the fact that they’ve been fighting for who knows how long and he hasn’t seen a  _glimpse_  of Kellogg yet, who’s been mocking him, calling from him, from loudspeakers that make it seem like the walls are talking to him.

Hates it almost as much as the cold, cold fear breeds in his gut that they’re too late.

“Was like you were in a  _trance_. Got no idea how many times I called out to you but you never  _listened_ , I had to save your ass like a hundred times and — what the hell, man, you could’ve gotten both of us  _killed!_ ” MacCready growls —  _he’s angry,_ Adust realizes, and sourness comes to his mouth in a way that’s unfamiliar. And then there’s something like  _pity_  in MacCready’s eyes, for the first time, and it somehow makes it all the  _worse_. 

MacCready frowns, the way he does when something is personal, makes him uncomfortable, and normally Adust’d find it endearing, fond, but now it’s just. Not a good feeling, watching MacCready take off his cap, running fingers through the dirty blonde mess of his hair. “… Look, I get it, alright? This is — this is a  _huge_  deal. Kellogg’s being a b — he’s being an  _ass_ , I hear him too, but this isn’t you. We’re... partners, right? That’s what we agreed on? You and me? Well, this isn’t  _you_ , and you keep on doing this we’re not gonna be alive enough to face your guy.”

 _I’m sorry_ , Adust wants to say, again, before he realizes how hollow it even sounds in his head, biting and ugly. How insincere. He’s — god, he’s actually  _angry too_ , he realizes, dimly in the back of his mind. Angry, and scared, and frustrated, and guilty, and anxious — he’s not himself and he  _knows_  it. Even when he first travelled with MacCready and didn’t trust the man yet, he was never this bad. Lost in his head, but never like this.

Because this time, it’s different. He’s toeing the finish line, tangible in his hands and dangling in front of his face. And the fear that he’s too late, that this has been all for nothing, the dread that even  _if_  Kellogg is down there he’ll be too exhausted to get to him, the sheer misery of everything, the ugly parts of his mind spitting his cowardice back at him, Kellogg mocking and laughing at him unseen behind these walls and driving him insane, the cramped debris of the inner fort and synth bodies littering the floor becoming oppressive, heavy and pressing down on him —

Helpless. He feels helpless, and the adrenaline is turning his usual breakdowns into  _anger_.

So the  _sorry_  never leaves his lips. Instead, it comes out as, “Please. Shut up.”

It comes out quiet, but he knows MacCready hears it. He sees MacCready’s eyes widening, in surprise, body tensing before face contorting back into something challenging, in disbelief. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Just... Quiet. Please. Okay?” Adust finds himself saying. Shuts his eyes beneath his mask and leans back against the wall, breathing harshly through his nose. “You don’t — you don’t know how this feels.”

“Oh my god. Oh, my _god._ You’re kidding me. You’re freakin’ kidding me.” He doesn’t need to see MacCready’s face to hear the sneer. It, somehow, only makes Adust clench his fists even more, and Adust’s voice rises without him meaning to. “ _I_  don’t know how this feels?”

“You — you  _don’t know what I’ve been through_!” He finds himself saying, surprising  _himself_  with his volume. Just two tones short of  _shouting_ , but he can’t help it, and MacCready jerks back in a way that makes something ugly lash out inside Adust. “You don’t know what it’s like, to, to get kicked out of a world that’s everything you’ve ever known, you don’t know what it’s like to have your  _best friend killed_  right in front of you, you don’t know what it’s like to lose out on your kid’s childhood, you — you don’t. You don’t  _fucking know_ , so...”

He feels the energy draining, as soon as it’d come. Makes the words fade, and come out quiet again. Tired.

“Please, just. Just let me  _be_. Just  _don’t_.”

There’s a moment of two of silence. A heartbeat of quiet, loaded with tension, and he glances up just in time to see the look on MacCready’s face go down like a door slamming shut — it goes from straight up anger to cold, impenetrable, in mere seconds. Walls, suddenly pulled back up, blinds suddenly pulled down on a window.

MacCready snorts, sounding less than friendly, and blue eyes tear from Adust in a way that leaves him suddenly feeling cold.

“Yeah? That’s how you really feel?” MacCready says, voice almost venomous. “ _Fine_ , then, I’ll shut up. That's what you paid me to do from the start, right? Shut up and shoot. Fine.”

Adust can’t find any words on his tongue. MacCready gets up, grunting. Adust can suddenly see — the torn clothing, burnt holes in them, can see the places where he’s been shot and stimmed and bruises everywhere and  _how did I not see that? How did I not realize? How many times was he in trouble and I didn't know?_ And he feels his insides curl and clench.  _Shame._

“By the way.” MacCready pipes up, suddenly, and Adust glances up at him. The look on his face is the stoniest Adust has ever seen. “You don’t know  _shit_  about me either, jackass.”

Adust finds his mind blanking. The gutpunch of guilt suddenly winds him, too caught up in his own head to have watched out for the guy he’s supposed to be partners with, and the guilt, along with the fear and the dread and every other horrible feeling in his gut makes him almost nauseous. If he were calmer, he would’ve pulled MacCready back to him. Apologized, instead of clenching his jaw like he is, angry and guilty all at the same time, MacCready looking the same. 

As if the tension before wasn’t already suffocating, it’s  _worse_ , now, and in the corner of Adust’s mind that’s still quiet, in the corner of his mind that isn’t overwhelmed by the stress of everything — he  _knows_  he fucked up, there.

Lashing out. The stress causing a lapse of judgement, a lapse of concentration. His own fault.

Whatever sense of comfort they’d drawn from each other, whatever sense of teamwork and camaraderie they’d formed before, yesterday, on the road here — it’s gone, now, and Adust swallows the cold, sour feeling in his throat as he pushes himself to get up with a pained grunt, and continues the walk down to the main control centre.

Almost abruptly, the number of synths fade to almost nothing, and the silence between them loud and ugly and doing nothing to help everything else churning in Adust’s gut, making him almost sick, making him want to almost cry — and maybe that’d be better, if he just went back to crying quietly, because at least then the problem was his to bear, and he didn’t lash out at the one person who’s been watching his back and tolerating his headspace for over a  _month_. His... his friend. The quiet of the short walk down the steps brings his mind to just barely a stable enough state for the waves of guilt to  _really_  wash over him, and it’s the shittiest he’s felt since he’s crawled out of the vault.

By the time they hit the basement level, he doesn’t know if he wants to puke or cry or punch a hole through a wall, his exhaustion being replaced by jittery anxiety and guilt and anger towards everything else, all rolling up in him like an internal storm. It’s like yesterday was a joke — he was finally feeling  _better_ , coming back to himself, he’d  _laughed_ , had made MacCready laugh too — and now it all seems like a fucking  _lifetime_  ago, and it’s his fault. Because when is it not?

 _Selfish_ , his mind mocks, and it hurts because it’s right,  _he saved your ass so many times, and this is how you repay him_.

 _Jennifer could’ve handled all this so much better_ , he thinks, and his hands are shaking again.  _Jennifer would know what to do_.

 _Jennifer would know what to say. She always did. She’d own up to her mistakes and make it right because she’s actually a decent human being who’s got her shit together. Who_ had _her shit together._

_Don’t disappoint her._

He slowly comes to a halt, on the last step, before turning back to MacCready. The look on the other man’s face could freeze hell — cold, shut off, like Adust had personally offended him — and he  _had_ , all things said, in a way that was wholly and completely uncalled for. Adust knows his face isn’t readable behind the mask, but his hands are fidgeting and he’s sure MacCready notices, judging by how the guy looks at him, still angry, but almost expectantly.

“I,” Adust starts, finds the words choking on his throat, the shame racing along with everything else to fight out of his mouth first, “I’m sorry, I — “

A pulse of blue flashes right before him, and he sees it hit his leg before he  _feels_  it, and he releases a choked cry before spinning around, finding more synths waiting inside what looks like a circular office. Another shot sends him diving for cover and MacCready going the other way, and he hits the ground hard on his shoulder, sending up a plume of dust, and he scrambles to get behind cover in time.

There’s only a couple of them in the room, and Adust takes them down without too much of a fuss, too used to their methods by now. Keeping their heads in the open, methodically reloading, it just takes counting shots and good timing. He watches the bright blue of their laser pistols flare, fire. Counts each shot. Waits till they drop and then he aims, squeezes the trigger, once, twice, six times, until the robot falls in a heap of metal scrap and sparks, until his rifle clicks empty. No more ammo.

Beside it, it’s clone falls too, MacCready’s bullets glinting shiny, embedded deep into the metal skeleton that’s wearing their friend’s face.

Though it’s not the face that makes Adust’s mind blank out.

It’s the slow sigh that comes over the loudspeaker.

“ _Well. Seems like nothing’s going to change your mind_.”

Adust breathes, heavy and sharp, through his nose.

“ _Fine, then. Have it your way. I’m right on ahead. I’ll tell my synths to stand down, and you and I can have the little chat that’s... Mildly overdue_.”

And there it is. The finish line.

Suddenly, he can’t think of anything else. His apologies to MacCready, his leg, put on the backburner as realization slams into him like a speeding truck. He sees the door ahead of them, and he doubts he can think at all. 

He’s almost locked into place — frozen, suddenly unsure of how to move forward now that he’s  _here_ , and Kellogg’s just up ahead. It doesn’t seem real. Suddenly the door that’ll lead him to his family’s taker seems like it’ll weigh a million pounds, and now that he’s here before the end of the line, he doesn’t know if he has the nerve to cross it.

The room is quiet. 

A thousand questions go through his mind. Whether this is a trap, whether he’ll go through that door only to get shot by ten dozen synths at once. Maybe Kellogg himself, with a gun up to Adust’s head, the same one that was raised in front of Jennifer, and maybe Adust will get a taste of the same flash of fear that overcame her when the barrel was raised between her eyes. And even if he manages to go through that door and not get instantly killed, then what? If Shaun’s in there? Will he even  _want_  to go to Adust’s side, a complete stranger? Will Shaun get caught in the crossfire? Adust doesn’t know how many synths there are besides Kellogg — how’s he going to make sure his boy doesn’t get caught in between the bullet hell?

A thousand questions.

He’s shaking. Trembling, and he almost doesn’t want to pick up his weapon. Every possible emotion runs through him like a hurricane, and he’s almost sick with it. Disgusted, nauseated, with how unprepared he is. Wholly sickened, by how terribly he’s handling all of this. His  _son_  is somewhere behind that door. He can’t fuck up, not this time. Not again. 

 _( How are my two favourite boys?_  He hears Jennifer, in his head, the day everything ended. )

He swallows, picks up his shotgun, and limps forward instead.

 

* * *

 

 

So this is how it ends, after all. This is it, the finish line, in all it’s glory. All the weeks of shooting. Waiting. Blood and dirt in equal measure, fingernails caked in both. Taking down an entire Gunner base, planting mutfruit trees in sanctuary, the sound of a gunshot echoing against the walls of the vault still haunting his dreams, and it comes down to this —

The sound of a metal door swinging open. Lights, flooding into an empty room —  _theatrical_ , a part of him notes — and illuminating, casting sharp shadows on the figures around him. In  _front_  of him. A circle of glowing eyes and metal skeletons, and the man in front of him, tired and weary-looking, but smirking sardonically, empty handed but unafraid.

“Didn’t think you’d make it this far. Congratulations.”

Kellogg.

Adust’s stomach  _clenches_. He has half a mind to run. If he even  _could_ run.

“I’ll be honest. You’re a better shot than I thought you would be. Pre-war soldier, I’m guessing. Sniper?” The man of the hour, says, conversational and easy, stepping out of the shadows and into the spotlight. Bald-headed, scarred. Lines on his face, chapped lips in a calm little half-smirk, knowing and aggravatingly stable. He’s clad in leather, and armed to the teeth. Kellogg himself, in the flesh, before him. Seven feet in front of him. His family’s taker, murder made man, calm as a sated cow.

Kellogg flashes him a quick twitch of a smile, pulling on the jagged ugly scar of his face, and Adust thinks —

 _Jennifer smiling, Jennifer laughing, Jennifer teaching Adust the words of his forgotten mother tongue, Jennifer holding up the positive pregnancy test after weeks of awkward trying, Jennifer stubbornly talking to colleagues even on maternity leave, Jennifer holding Shaun on the hospital bed, Jennifer bringing him home, Jennifer teasing Adust in the bathroom, Jennifer running with Shaun in her arms towards the vault, Jennifer’s last pleas and angry cries before this bastard raised the gun to her head and fired_ —

“ _Where is my son_.” Adust bites out. His voice shaking, but his hands not, gripping the shotgun tight in his hands. His finger is on the trigger. He doesn’t ever put it down.

Kellogg blinks. Looks almost surprised by the question, before raising his hands, in a mock I-surrender pose that only makes Adust tense up more instead of the opposite.

“Right to it, then. Alright. I can respect a no-nonsense kind of character.” Kellogg says. Shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Pretty great kid. Kept him around for awhile, but you probably figured that out when you trespassed my home.”

Adust finds an ugly snarl curling at the edge of his lip, making himself straighten up, shoulders rigid. “You trespassed _mine_ first. Took my son and killed Jennifer while you were at it.”

“Jennifer. Right. Determined woman, I’ll give her that. Shame she didn’t let go.” Kellogg answers, taking another step forward that makes Adust take another step back. Heart pounding in his ears, blood like ice. He faintly registers half a dozen synths surrounding him. Guns down, but active. Circling. He thinks he may still be bleeding. “But you’re determined too. Even went through the trouble of taking down Gunners to find me. Isn’t that right, RJ MacCready? How’s _your_ family down in the Capital?”

The sound of Kellogg’s rough voice spelling out MacCready’s name makes something in Adust go stone-still, and then suddenly colder than  _ever_ , a different kind of fear enveloping his system in a split-second kneejerk reaction. Instinct that makes him want to turn over his shoulder and tell his partner to  _run_. It makes his hands traitorously tremble, even as he hears familiar footsteps coming up from behind him. Close enough that he can feel their shoulders brush. Saying nothing, but radiating protective  _anger_ , something that Adust feels starting coil deeper inside him too.

He takes that contact, draws what strength he can from it. The solidity, MacCready getting his back. Takes what he can, and puts his attention back on Kellogg, shoulders tense and hands ready.

“What happened to no-nonsense, Kellogg.” Adust bites out. Surprising himself with his own anger, his own harshness. It isn’t unwelcome. He embraces it. “Where the  _fuck_  is Shaun?”

Kellogg seems almost  _amused_  by the words, smiling, like nothing’s going wrong. Smiling in a way that makes it seem like he doesn’t care how the outcome of this comes out to be. Like he’ll get the last word anyway.

“Okay. Okay, okay. That’s fair.” Kellogg nods. Claps his hands together decisively. Adust can see the callouses. “I can tell you. But if you’re looking for a happy reunion? Ain’t gonna happen, pal.”

Adust’s mind whirs to a halt. Frozen.

“Your boy’s not here.”

Something in those words paralyze him. A knot in his chest suddenly tightening. Breathing is suddenly harder than ever.

( Around him, he doesn’t spot a single sign of Shaun, and suddenly his heart  _drops_. )

He grips his shotgun tighter, with fingers that tremble. Says again, “What?”

“So close, but so far away. That’s how it’s said, right? Shaun’s  _not here_. Not anymore. You're just a little too late.” Kellogg says. Easy as pie. Smooth like butter. Walks up to Adust, like he’s breaking the news that someone chipped the paint on the fence. Like someone accidentally spilled some lemonade on the nice tablecloth. “He was a good kid, though. Was nice to have him around. Shame that he had to go. I’ll make sure you die knowing that. He’s in a better place, now that he’s w — “

Adust doesn’t even think. Doesn’t think he can. Only finds himself caught in the moment, flash frozen, like impact time in slow motion where glass hits the floor and  _shatters_ , something in his heart and lungs collapsing in themselves.

_You killed my son?_

Kellogg doesn’t say another word, can’t finish what he says, not before Adust’s hands move up in less than a second and squeezes the trigger with the steadiest hands he’s had in months and there’s the sound of a  _click-BOOM —_

Kellogg’s brains paint the computer behind him red, and chaos  _erupts_.

(  _This morning, he wakes to her face. She’s about as graceful as a drunk horse in her sleep; on her side, limbs sprawled. Dark hair spilled around her like an oil slick, drool trailing down the corner of her mouth. His own hair mixes with hers, his a careful silver, only slivers of black at the nape of his neck now. The room is slightly chilly, but the morning sun filters into the room like melted butter, sliding on their figures like a comforter, highlighting her shoulders and his chest, her shirt saying “I’m WAW-FFUL good” with a waffle print, his shirt just plain grey._

_It’s peaceful. He can hear Codsworth already getting to work on breakfast in the kitchen. Shaun, thankfully, still peacefully asleep. Himself, feeling better than he has in ages. Quiet nights have been hard since coming back from the army. But here, in this house they’ve bought and the home they’ve built together, with Jennifer and Shaun and Codsworth — it seems worth it, now._

_He’d do anything, for family._ )

He feels the laserfire in his gut more than he sees it, and he thinks he works on autopilot. It feels like a gutpunch, but it’s numb. He doesn’t really know if he’s even inhabiting his own body, at this point. But he does, vaguely, remember firing his shotgun into the torso of a synth at his side, the punch sending it in a spray of metal parts and debris, and he thinks he sees MacCready dart under cover to shoot at another.

Adust catches it off guard and fires its leg off, but not before it fires one right at his arm. He doesn’t know if he registers the pain. Can't even feel the throbbing in his leg anymore.

( “ _So I was thinking we could head to the park today. Weather should hold up.” Jennifer grinned, pushing up her glasses with her knuckle. “It just finished raining, Shaun could see his first rainbow!”_

_“Subtle way of breaking the news to him, don’t you think?” He remembers joking, grinning, and Jennifer had ugly-snorted so hard he burst into a fit of laughter. And Shaun, Shaun had giggled right back. Gripped his finger like it was a lifeline, gripped it like gripping Adust’s heart, clenching warm with love, so much love, for his son and his new family and he remembers thinking; I’ll protect you, I’ll protect you with my life,_

_I’ll let you see the world, and we’ll make it right, I promise._ )

His ears are fuzzy. He doesn’t think he can feel, not until a synth comes up to him and slams him across the ribs with a shock baton, sending him  _flying_  and landing, hard, onto the dusty floor, knocking the air out of his lungs and making him wheeze and desperately grasp for air against his will, twitching and spasming with the electricity pulsing through him —

The synth beats him again, and again, and again, each whack making him seize and grit his teeth even though his eyes are wide, unseeing, and pain blossoms throughout him so much he almost loses feeling to it.  _Crack_  goes his ribs,  _crack_  goes his collarbone, and then the shock baton hits him hard enough in the chest again that he feels an almighty  _agony_  shocking through his lungs, lung, gasping for breath and then gurgling with blood —

(  _In the vault, he spares only the thought of taking the wedding band from Jennifer’s finger, before he shuts the pod again. Keeps the band, icy and chilled, in his pocket._ I swear, I’ll find Shaun. _He watches as the pod hisses and shuts again, and he wipes his eyes with his forearm, the vault suit almost rigidly smooth, absorbing the moisture of his eyes._ I’ll come back and bury you properly. If I make it out there, I will. _His pod and her pod seem to be the only ones still actively working. Doesn’t know for how long, but… maybe it’ll keep the body fresh, at least._

_Her corpse. God._

_“No,” he says to no one but himself as her pod clicks shut. Because thinking about him will keep him lagging behind. Right now, he needs to get out of here. Needs to find their baby boy. Needs to clear his mind, doesn’t matter that it doesn’t work because she’s family, fuck,_ she’s my best friend, it doesn’t matter we never loved each other like we were supposed to, I miss her, I need her _— he needs to find their son. The one way to honour her. The one way to protect the only family he has left, now. The son they worked so hard to have, to love, to raise._

_Their baby boy. Shaun had his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair and Adust has to find him. Has to hold him and tell him about the world he’s missed, about the world he has. Has to tell him all about the mother who bore him — the greatest hero Adust’s ever known, he needs to tell Shaun about her love. Her brightness and her light. Needs to tell him about the stories they would’ve told, when the world was still colourful, needs to teach him how to make this world just as bright._

_He needs to find Shaun and do right by him. By Jennifer. By himself._ )

This is what the finish line looks like. He knows, now.

No gold, no glory, no happy ending. Just an empty track. Desolate. Running, for an end with no meaning.

_Shaun is dead. He really is, isn’t he._

Adust coughs up blood, painting the inside of his gasmask, and wonders if this is how he dies. Maybe it’s the world finally catching up to him. One last  _fuck you_ , a hint that he should’ve died when he pressed the gun to his temple the first night after leaving the vault, should’ve taken the painless way out instead of bleeding out and drowning in his own blood from a punctured lung, on the floor where his family’s killer is lying on too, the inside of his head painting the abandoned computer monitors and some of the floor.

It would’ve been easier if he’d just shot himself. Would’ve hurt a lot less. Would’ve seen Jennifer and Shaun again, at least. Isn’t that what he wants?

Are they waiting for him, now, on the other side?

The sound of gunshots abruptly end, and he almost forgets about MacCready until he sees the man running up to him,  _fear_  in those intense blue eyes, half his face black and blue in bruises, laserfire singeing his clothes and showing the metal plating under them, dropping to his knees, and Adust feels both guilt and relief.  _Sorry for being a shitty partner_ , he wants to say.  _I couldn’t do right by you either._

Instead, he just coughs, and he feels something warm and coppery dripping down his chin as he struggles to breathe.

“Crap. Crap crap crap  _crap crap_   — come on, come  _on_ , where are your stims — “ MacCready says, above him, shadowing over him, searching Adust’s pack and comes up with broken pieces of glass dripping with stim fluid, the syringes broken with the impact of the shock baton landing across him again and again and again.

Above him, there’s  _panic_ , in MacCready’s eyes, and Adust chooses to stare at the ceiling instead. Feels the burning, deep in his eyes and in his throat along with the blood, chest heaving and desperate for air he isn’t getting. He can’t think. Static overwhelms his brain, his ears, he can’t see or hear or think anything beyond the burning.

(  _I tried_ , he wants to say. Quiet, in the back of his mind.  _I really tried, Jennifer. But it wasn’t enough. I fucked up, again. I’m so, so sorry_. )

He feels the needle plunge into his chest more than he sees it, feels the liquid of the stim work, and then twice, and suddenly he finds himself jack-knifing onto his side, retching, his gasmask being torn aside as he starts coughing out the blood inside his mending lung and bile comes out with it, stomach clenching on itself again, and again, hot and sour and twisted and he’s  _shaking_ , he’s shaking so hard, there’s tears running down his face and snot and spit and —

Hands. Warm, firm hands grabbing him, pulling him up, and he barely realizes, thinks,  _MacCready_ , recognizes his touch before he even thinks about it, before he finds himself  _grasping for him_  without even thinking. Digs his bloodied fingers deep into the duster of the man before him without even actively deciding it, just  _desperate_ , suddenly, just suddenly  _lost_  and needing someone to  _be_  there, and —

_Shaun’s gone._

The realization hits him like a speeding truck, leaves him winded and in  _agony_ , desperation and clawing, overwhelming grief for the son he’s suddenly lost again and the wife he’d failed drowning him as he feels hands clumsily coming up fast to hold him, fingers winding in his hair and he buries his face into MacCready’s shoulder, face contorting as he collapses into  _tears_. Breathing is harder. He can’t, why can’t he catch his fucking  _breath_ , and he scrunches his eyes so tight he sees explosions of stars behind them as he desperately gasps for breath. His heart feeling like it’s about to beat out of his chest, his hands shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, like loose wrists and growing pressure, and he wants to scream except nothing comes out but wet, sticky sobs and heaviness in his chest that makes him want to sink into the ground and never come up. He’s dizzy, the world is spinning and he feels like he’s having a damn  _heart attack_. 

( He’d considered the possibility. Had, ever since the start, that Shaun had the possibility of not being okay. That Adust’d be fine, as long as he  _knew_ , as long as he got closure. He thought he’d be okay with it, if it happened.

Hadn’t thought about the hope. Hadn’t thought about the love in his heart for the son he’s lost.

Hadn’t thought about how much it would hurt to know the truth. It  _hurts_. )

He clutches on to MacCready, unashamed and curled, like if he folds in on himself enough he might be able to fold into nothing at all, like he’ll disappear, and MacCready’s gone from awkwardly holding to holding tight onto him, fingers curled into the leather of Adust’s jacket as if Adust will come apart if he lets go —  and he might, he might, dear god, he  _might_ , the sudden swoop of emptiness in his chest so vast he might collapse in on himself, like a crumbling house, like a landslide _—_ stubbly cheek against the cooling damp of Adust’s sweaty temple, and Adust only  _sobs_  like this, this is it, this is the end and this is the only thing keeping him  _tethered_. Shaking and jumpy and dizzy, trying to swallow choked breaths that never seem to enter his lungs before whooshing out again with each unbearable, jackrabbit thump of his heart.

“It’s you and me. You and me.” MacCready says, whispers harsh into his hair, mouth against the sweat and blood, skinny arms tight against the violent convulsing of Adust’s back as Adust clutches onto him, an arm around MacCready and clawing at his own back, digging into the fabric, desperate for something to hold on to when his world is spinning out of control.

MacCready holds onto him. Holds onto him and doesn’t let go, not once, as Adust breaks down to pieces, something in his heart collapsing in on itself,  _sobbing_ , for the loss of the best friend he couldn’t avenge, for the son he’d lost  _twice_. For not being fast enough. For being too scared. For not being the one to grab Shaun when they were running to the vault, for being the  _backup_. For everyone he couldn’t save.

For who he is, today. For everything he couldn’t be.

They stay there, like that. Caught in a room where time’s stood still, holding onto each other desperately, MacCready’s fists clenched in Adust’s shirt as Adust aches bone-deep and sobbing. Swears his apologies to whoever is watching. Mourning, and grieving, for a home and a family that’s gone on without him, a family that doesn’t exist, not anymore. 

Buries his face in MacCready’s shoulders, prays for forgiveness, cries his throat raw. Shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so anyway there's more than one way to take "your son isn't here anymore" and the copious use of past tense, SO. THIS took awhile and a looooooooooot of editing if only bc i wrote like 7k of this while my headspace was void. but here it is and there you go and this will probably be the last update for awhile, if only bc my new semester has started and i'll be probably very busy. i'll still be writing tho! but it'll be oneshots probs. if i can squeeze time for an update and motivation hits, i will
> 
> every kudos and comment you leave boosts chances for this fic to be Definitely Continued and ily all who have been with me for this wild ride so far. we're just getting started, folks. this is barely the end of the first of like five arcs i have planned. there is More Suffering but i promise there will be sweet fluffy nonsense in the future and not just adust grieving 5evr. there will be gratuitious amounts of domesticity even.
> 
> guys PLEASE go give [Come Down, Sweet Reverance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6756355) a read if you haven't yet (though it's explicit and in progress, mind) and then throw a thousand kudos and comments @ it bc it's literally the only glory/piper fic ao3 has. i'm serious. and it's so fucking good.
> 
> EDIT: 23 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	10. we're ghosts and we're praying for winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust likes flowers, and MacCready gets holiday presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied suicidal ideation.

MacCready’s never been more relieved in his _life_ that the Gunners didn’t manage to wipe out all of the Minutemen.

The flare was shot in the air as soon as MacCready managed to haul Adust outside, hostiles be damned. It’s the dead of night by the time they’re out and there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to carry both himself and Adust back to safety on his own. A shower of sparks up in the sky, the brightest target he’s ever seen, and then it’d been twenty minutes of waiting, painful and nervewrecking, before he’d heard the thud of approaching boots and  _over here! They’re over here!_  And saw familiar settlers running up, guns in their hands and a medic bag. He never really thought the Minutemen of anything revolutionary back then, but now he’s more grateful than  _ever_  that Adust’d always insisted on helping out.

They’d walked back in the dead of night to the nearest friendly settlement —  or limped, anyway, with Adust slung between another Minuteman and MacCready, because injuries be damned, he’s going to snarl and bite someone’s damn arm off before he lets Adust go. Not after what happened, not after all of that. Three more Minutemen flanked them from behind, and Adust had said nothing the whole way there. Just stumbled, hoisted between them, blank-eyed and too far out of it to do anything more than put one foot in front of the other.

 _That’s fine_ , MacCready had gritted out in his mind, stubbornly keeping his grip on Adust despite the way his own body protests and the Minutemen offering to help, _better than dead_.

He only let go once they arrived at the settlement. Doesn’t even remember what it looks like — just knows that the settlers brought them in, had asked MacCready to bring Adust to lie down so they can check his injuries. MacCready did just that, sat down by his side on the ground, leaned back against the wall. He fell asleep in five seconds flat.

Whichever medic helped them in the night worked quiet and quick, the only sign they’d ever had work done was when MacCready woke at sunrise to Adust’s whimpers and his own wounds in bandages. They’d stayed for a couple more hours, then — Adust only waking to stare at the wall listlessly for an hour, MacCready quiet by his side. He’s never known what to say. Now, more than ever, MacCready’s frustrated as hell that he doesn’t have the words for this — he didn’t know what to say when Lucy died, how’s he supposed to know how to say anything to Adust?

They leave in the early noon after lunch (or MacCready eats, anyway, stomach starved after a full day of fighting and barely hydrated, while Adust picks at his food and rubs at damp eyes.) There’s a caravan heading upwards to Sanctuary, because screw Valentine and that stupid agency and Diamond City, the last thing they need is a reminder of Kellogg and what he did right now and so they follow the pack brahmin up alongside a trader they don’t know, happy to have an extra two (one) gun(s) at their back.

By the time they hit Sanctuary, it’s almost sundown, and Preston’s already waiting by the bridge. The statue keeps its vigil, watching over them as they cross over the rickety thing that looks like it’s damn near about to crumble anyone of these days with all the foot traffic it gets, and even though Preston looks at MacCready with the same tension they had when they’d left, he’s smart enough to read MacCready’s look. Sharp, threatening,  _don’t start anything right now,_ can obviously see the hallowed look in Adust’s eyes without the gasmask to shield it away.

So Preston just says  _welcome back_ , with that same tone he uses with new settlers who are lost and confused and hurting, and then leaves Adust in MacCready’s hands while he guides the trader in.

It’s only later on, when MacCready follows Adust’s quiet footsteps back to the rickety home he and MacCready have been sleeping in before does he realize he maybe shouldn’t have sent Preston away. The realization comes way too late, and he sort of wants to punch himself in the throat when they walk through the doorway and he sees Adust  _shaking_. 

_Great idea, MacCready. Why not bring him back to his house. You know, the one that he used to live in. With his dead wife and dead kid. That ought to fix everything._

“Hey,” MacCready says, voice rough in its hesitance. “Listen, we don’t have to — there are other places to sleep. We don’t have to be here.”

The doorway is small for two people, so it’s just like before, kind of — him staring at the back of Adust’s head, expression unreadable. It’s frustrating. It’s scary. It’s painfully familiar, and so he waits for the response, if any.

He gets one, surprisingly. Just the smallest, most fragile, “I know.”

And Adust walks in anyway, and well, who the hell is MacCready to tell this guy what’s good for him or not, so MacCready follows after, tracing his footsteps behind Adust’s, in the ghosts of everything Adust had lost. A stranger despite living around this settlement, this house, for weeks and weeks and weeks now, side by side, now more than ever MacCready feels out of place. Adust is the one 200 years displaced in time, but MacCready feels like he’s in a spot he doesn’t belong. Like he’s invading.

They’ walk to the back of the house, down the hallway, right to the room at the back that neither of them have entered since they’d started sleeping in here. MacCready immediately knows why. It’s like a punch in the gut as soon as he walks in, enough to wind him, and the guilt of invading this kind of privacy tugs at his lungs as soon as he sees the baby blue crib in the centre of the room, a worn blanket with spaceships on it hung over the side.

(Feels another, different kind of fear when he sees it and thinks —  _Duncan_.)

Adust breaks the quiet, surprisingly. “It’s still here.”

“Ads?” MacCready questions, and watches as the guy steps towards the crib. Calloused fingers, trembling, touching the edges of radiation-torn plastic. Doesn’t say a word for what feels like hours.

“MacCready,” Adust finally says, and MacCready can’t ignore how much that voice sounds like it’s a hair away from tearing apart, “I think. I’d like to be left alone, for awhile.”

MacCready. Hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want to give the guy his space — MacCready knows when to keep fighting, when to be stubborn and hold on for dear life, but he also knows when things are done and he has to stop and lick his wounds — but because MacCready doesn’t trust the rifle slung across his back. Doesn’t trust the pistol on his hip. Grief can change a person, can make someone do stupid, stupid things in very, very short timespans. MacCready knows. He’s  _been_  there. He’d been lucky enough to have Duncan in his arms, to care for and to focus on, instead of whatever waited on the other side, instead of the darkness and the loneliness threatening to snap him up from the inside out.

Adust doesn’t have that. Not anymore. All he’s got is MacCready, who’s easily pissed off and cocky and immature and  _not_  the guy for this. Not at all, but it’s all Adust’s got, and that may be the saddest part yet, poor bastard.

“Sure thing,” MacCready finally responds, “Just hand over your pack and guns.”

He sees Adust pause. And then turn, slowly, to look at him, and the empty look in his eyes burns through MacCready worse than any laserfire ever has. “I’m not... I’m not going to. Do anything.”

“Yeah,” MacCready says without ever believing it, “But one of us has to pawn off the loot while the trader’s here. Clean and repair the guns. I’m heading out anyway, might as well.”

It’s a lie. It’s a straight up lie and Adust can probably tell instantly. But if he does, he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps quiet for another painful, too-long minute after another, before finally shrugging off his pack and his rifle and his pistol. MacCready takes it from him, hands full, and keeps a careful eye on Adust as he walks back to the door.

“I’ll be back soon.” MacCready says, he thinks, to a ghost.

Adust doesn’t say anything. Just nods. And MacCready wrenches himself away from the room he’s got no place in, and walks back outside, where it’s getting dark and cold, and breathes.

In the end he does sort of make a truth out of the lie and hits up the caravan trader. They don’t actually have a whole lot of loot to sell — hitting up Kellogg was an endless chase, MacCready halfway stumbling over himself trying to catch up with Adust’s desperate pace without any time to even lean on a wall for a breather, let alone rummage through dozens of dead synths. Whatever MacCready’s got to trade in is just whatever they’d gotten before the firefight got rough — some pre-war magazine, a couple of rounds for guns neither of them have, laser pistols from the first few fallen synths and a couple of packs of cigarettes. MacCready gets a gentle clink of caps in his palm for his efforts, but it doesn’t feel as good as it used to.

The other settlers avoid MacCready when he goes to grab food from the common house. Put off by the harsh lines of his shoulders, the tension he hasn’t been able to shake since they’d left Fort Hagen. He doesn’t want them to talk to him anyway — things obviously didn’t go well, if they can use their two eyes to just look at the state of the both of them, and MacCready doesn’t want to be the one to break the news. It’s not his place. And if someone starts another gossip breeze around here about Adust, MacCready’s not sure he can keep whatever remaining peace he’s got with Preston if he punches a settler in the throat.

He eats his razorgrain bread and radstag stew and it tastes like sludge and cardboard but he’s had worse and so he eats on autopilot while he thinks, sitting alone by the fire and forcing everyone else to sit further away and on cold benches. He doesn’t care. He deserves a friggin’ fire after everything that’s happened, and he needs the quiet to  _think_. 

Because now he’s got two things to worry about. One of which pulls him down, heavy, lead in his heart and in his veins, filled with guilt and confusion because he doesn’t know what to do. The other one — the other one is different. It’s  _fear_ , gnawing cold and ready to paralyze him, eating away at his lungs and his bone marrow. The real driving force of all his tension, and one he  _hates_  the most because he doesn’t, he  _can’t_  have an answer to this one because the only guy who knew it had his brains blown out within ten minutes of meeting him.

_Isn’t that right, RJ MacCready? How’s your family down in the Capital?_

MacCready doesn’t know how the  _hell_  Kellogg knows about him, or his life in the Capital wasteland. More importantly, MacCready’s anxiety burns cold in his stomach over how Kellogg knows about his  _family_. Duncan. Does he know? Does he know where Duncan is, does he know that Duncan is vulnerable and sick and MacCready isn’t  _there_  to protect him? What does the Institute have to do with all this — and why do they  _know_?

It’s terrifying. It’s  _fucking_  terrifying. The idea that the boogeyman is out there, looking over his  _kid_ , and he doesn’t know how or why or — it makes him want to gag out his food, retch until he’s empty, wring his hands until they stop trembling.

He has to go back. He  _needs_  to make sure Duncan is okay, is safe, is alive, needs to ask Joseph and Princess if they’ve seen anything weird around, needs to make sure his baby boy will be  _safe_. MacCready knows he has to go back. As soon as the traders roll in at the end of the week, he knows he’s got to go home, if only to soothe his own anxiety. The Institute can’t — if they take away Duncan, the only thing that’s kept him going all this while, the thing that MacCready has broken himself and bled for to keep alive, destroyed his own morality for, the only part of Lucy he still has left —

No. He’s not going to let that happen. He’d be  _damned_  if he lets that happen. He’d made a promise and he never goes back on his word, even if it kills him. Failure isn’t an option.

But then there’s Adust. Adust, who didn’t have a choice in the matter, the embodiment of MacCready’s own worst fears coming to life  — and MacCready feels altogether useless because he  _doesn’t know what to do_. He’s never been the comforting type. And even though he’s going back to the Capital anyway, he can’t just — he can’t just  _leave_ , not now, he can’t leave Adust alone. But even if he stayed — and he can’t, he knows he can’t, he won’t rest easy until he knows his son is still in safe hands and breathing — he doesn’t know what to do. What to say. He could leave Adust with Preston, or any of the Sanctuary crew, or even call down Valentine, but.

They haven't been around the man like MacCready has. It's MacCready, who's spent the last few months with, watching each others backs. Sleeping, eating, breathing around each other — after what happened at Fort Hagen, with Adust completely shattering and falling apart in MacCready’s arms, MacCready doesn’t know what to  _do_. Something changed, there in Fort Hagen, something that happens when someone falls apart completely in your arms, something that made something fierce burn heavy in MacCready’s chest, but. Adust needs someone there for him right now, someone better suited to handle the mourning than MacCready can, but he doesn't know who to call on who could really sit down and  _be there_ and help, someone Adust trusts.

And as he stares down at his half-eaten plate of food, he realizes that he knows who he has to find.

A shadow coming over him ruins his mini eureka moment a bit though, and he scowls hard as he looks up to tell off whoever’s coming to bother him. The dark eyes he comes to meet makes him even more tense than before.

“If you’re here to give me more shit about being an ex-Gunner, you’re better off walking away.” MacCready warns, bristling, eyes lit up in the firelight. “I don’t have the energy to fight you right now.”

Preston doesn’t look scared. Looks tense himself, holding him in like he’s trying his best to cheek his words. And then, “No. I — I’m not saying anything about that. I just wanted to ask about Adust.”

MacCready’s shoulders loosen, if only minutely, though it tenses again when Preston slowly sits by the fire, a comfortable distance away from MacCready. He doesn’t look at MacCready, and MacCready wrenches his eyes away too. He keeps his own mouth shut though. If Preston’s going to keep his beef with MacCready cheeked, MacCready’s going to do the same, if only because he’s tired.

MacCready shakes his head, looking at the flickering fire. “What do you want to know?”

“Just. His kid — “ and now Preston looks at him, looking less agitated now that his focus is on a different topic, “Are you sure?”

MacCready finds it in him to look back, jaws tensing, before looking back at the fire. “Kellogg’s brains are painting Fort Hagen’s floors for it, yeah.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” Preston says darkly, under his breath, and it almost surprises MacCready to hear him. And then, “... Adust? Will he be okay?”

MacCready doesn’t have an answer for that.  _Yeah_ , is what he wants to say, but he doesn’t know if it’s gonna be true, and he won’t make assumptions on Adust’s part about it. So he shrugs. Finishes off the last of his dinner even as his appetite’s been shot to hell ages ago, sets the plate aside. Preston doesn’t even bother nagging at him for putting the plate back. Part of the unspoken truce for tonight, MacCready guesses, in the light of their mutual friend’s grief.

And besides. MacCready is — he’s solid enough to know that Preston isn’t a complete ass. Knows Preston is actually one of the nicest guys in the wastes — knows that it’s a goddamn miracle that Preston hasn’t been shot dead yet, that’s for sure. It isn’t even as if the guy’s hatred is unfounded, MacCready knows the weight of his own sins, the atrocities he’s done under the Gunners, even if it’s not the ones Preston is thinking of. He’s not the cold-hearted villain Preston thinks he is, but he’s not a good person either. If anything, MacCready hates Preston for how much it reminds MacCready of everything he's done. But right now... for right now, MacCready can live with being the guy’s bane of existence for a while — he needs that heart of gold tonight.

“I’m heading off. In a bit.” MacCready breaks the silence, mouth in a grim line. “I’m heading to Goodneighbour.”

“You’re  _leaving_?” Preston says in disbelief, and the implications behind it make MacCready’s fists ball up. Punching Preston would be  _really_  satisfying, just to ease out his tension right now, but he’s mature enough not to do it.

“I’m not  _abandoning_  him,” MacCready hisses, jerks his gaze iron-hot to Preston, “I need to get someone  _for_  him. And I need you to watch over him while I’m gone.”

Preston has the courtesy to look a little bit ashamed there, and MacCready takes what satisfaction he can out of it. It doesn’t last long. The look in Preston’s eyes say  _I know, I know, I understand_ , and everyone’s lost something out here.

“Of course. I — yeah, no, I know. I can do that.” Preston nods. “But it’s dangerous out right now, and you must be exhausted. Can’t you do it in the morning?”

MacCready shakes his head. “It's fine, I know the way, should be back by morning. I’ll be fine. Just — just  _watch_  him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The implications of  _that_  make Preston look at MacCready, and MacCready just meets his gaze, eyes hard. He knows exactly what he means, and Preston nods rigidly. Preston may not like  _MacCready_ , but Adust had known him even before the guy stopped by the Third Rail that fateful night. They’re at least friends, and MacCready knows Preston enough by now to know how strong his loyalties lie. He trusts Preston to know how to handle the situation. Especially since he’s been through it himself.

MacCready moves to stand, feels his knees and joints crack and creak as he does. The food was at least good to warm his stomach, and it’ll be enough energy for the trip to Goodneighbour. It’s cold enough out and late enough that he doubts there’ll be a lot of hostiles wandering in the open, but he won’t be any less cautious.

“MacCready,” Preston calls, and MacCready glances at him. Catches eyes flickered amber in the firelight, nothing but intensity, and seriousness. “Be careful.”

And MacCready can only nod, and leaves the warmth of the fire behind.

( He leaves a half hour later, once he checks in to make sure Adust is still breathing. The sight makes his chest ache, somewhere deep and bruising — Adust sitting on the ground, leaning against the crib, fast asleep. Nothing can hide the redness of his eyes, or the way the shadows fall heavy under Adust’s defined cheekbones. He’s holding something in his hands — the spaceship blanket, MacCready realizes, the rocket’s colours fading with time.

MacCready doesn’t move him. Doesn’t want to wake him. Better to be asleep than crying his eyes out, and so MacCready grabs whatever blankets he can find that they’d left behind before and come back to drape it across Adust’s shoulders. He leaves Adust’s pack by his side, too — but MacCready’s left the guns in Preston’s hands. He’ll come by in a bit. Make sure Adust falls asleep somewhere less freezing and less depressing than the floor of his dead kid.

The thought in itself echoes and hits something where it hurts, in MacCready. And so he puts on his layers, pulls on his scarf. Tugs on his hat, and hopes Preston’s got a handle on things while MacCready’s gone.

The night is long and cold, and MacCready crosses the rickety bridge for the second time that day. )

 

* * *

 

 

His feet are killing him by the time he pushes past Goodneighbour’s gates. It’s absolutely  _freezing_  out, MacCready’s half sure he won’t have fingers by the time he gets back, and wishes he could pull his cap down over his numb ears too, but at least he’s  _here_. Finally. The guards on watch look at him a little weird, but Goodneighbour’s never cared for the time of day weird people come in at. MacCready’s pretty sure the Third Rail is still alive and kicking right now, anyway — hasn’t reached the hour yet where everyone starts stumbling home, drunk or beaten up, and Goodneighbour’s most alive while the sun’s asleep.

Daisy’s shop is closed though, but that hasn’t stopped him before. He walks over and raps his knuckles against the metal shutter, hissing at the chill, and then after a beat he starts knocking again.

The metal shutter rolls up halfway through and it nearly takes his fingertips with it, but this time he expects the shotgun to his chest. She’s wearing a faded, ratty nightgown, all floral print and so un-Daisy despite it all, it speaks a lot for the situation where MacCready doesn’t even smile about it, let alone tease her a bit for the outfit choice.

At least she recognizes him instantly. And immediately frowns. “MacCready? Back already?” She says, and then, looking around, “Where is — “

“Sanctuary. Up north.” MacCready says, and winces over how dry his throat is in the bitter chill. He swallows to ease it up, but it doesn’t help much.

The recognition is in Daisy’s eyes before he even explains. He sees the dread set in, the slouch of her shoulders as she lowers the shotgun. “... And Shaun?”

They both know the answer before he even says anything. He doesn’t have to. His mouth sets in a thin, grim line, and he ducks his head a little. He hates delivering bad news. Never liked it, never got easier, not even back when he was still the mayor of Little Lamplight, either watching the grown children leave to never come back, or sitting in the dark of the caverns and watching the less fortunate children fade away to their sicknesses. Here, now — he watches Daisy’s face morph into a flicker of  _despair_ , and he hates himself for being the messenger.

“He needs you,” MacCready tries again. “We can leave in a couple of — “

“No.” Daisy cuts in, firm, shaking her own head. The temporary grief shuttered up again in hard-as-steel determination, quiet in her tone. “We’re going now. Just give me a little bit to pack up and lock up. Then we’ll go.”

MacCready nods, and follows her into the shop. He leans against the wall as she goes to do what she has to, and he lets his body rest a little, cap tipped down as he crosses his arms and waits. He falls into a sort-of doze, standing like that — not real sleep, because he’s not that stupid, and because he has too many thoughts racing through his mind to rest yet. Duncan. Adust. Kellogg. The Institute. Shaun, Jennifer, Lucy. It takes active effort not to clench his jaws, to not ache the teeth he’s got left.

Daisy’s as quick and efficient as she ever is, though, and she comes back down in no time, hauling a light pack with her and keys in her hand. She’s ditched her suit, put on something warmer and more wasteland-friendly, has her shotgun slung over her shoulders. She’s still wearing her wig, though — dark brown and carefully tied, and it’s enough to make MacCready crook a small smile.

She closes up shop, locks it up. Tells the guards to inform the mayor that she’ll be out of town for a little while, before nudging MacCready out the gates with her. The sun will be up in just a couple of hours, and the wasteland is gonna wake up with it, friends and enemies alike. MacCready wants to be as close to Sanctuary as he can before he’s forced to find out who’s who.

They make it right as the first streaks of pre-dawn light starts painting the sky in broad, wispy strokes. MacCready aches everywhere — he’s been walking almost constantly the past few days, hasn’t really recovered from the fight, and by the time the bridge creaks under his and Daisy’s footsteps he’s half-dead from exhaustion. Daisy’s in better shape — dark eyes dart around the place, lipless mouth pressed firm until they pass the first guardsmen, the commonhouse, into a house that’s falling apart, and MacCready leads her to the living room where she hears her finally go  _oh_.

Adust looks smaller, like this. Younger. Curled up on the worn couch, his armour off and just in a bunch of different jackets, under a bunch of different blankets. Silver hair fans out over dusty throw pillows, and MacCready is so relieved by the sight of Adust asleep and the fact he’s finally back that his knees start to feel shaky. He’s halfway to buckling down to the floor. He just wants to sleep for a couple of days at this point.

Adust is as light of a sleeper as he ever is, though, and MacCready sees dark eyes fly open as soon as Daisy takes steps closer to him, not caring to make herself particularly quiet. The guy sits up immediately, turns to look at them. Eyes widening when he realizes who’s there. MacCready doesn’t know what to do or say, standing still by the doorway — was it right of him to bring Daisy up here like this? Was he supposed to? It’s the only thing he could think of to do, damn it. In the cold, pre-dawn light, MacCready hates feeling unsure.

“Daisy?” Adust finally croaks, voice hoarse with sleep. Disbelief. “Wh — why...”

“Hey there, sugar.” Daisy says, and it’s the softest that MacCready’s ever heard her, “Came to see you. I heard about what happened.”

“What h — “ Adust follows, before recognition flickers behind his eyes, and his lips twitch downwards. For just that moment, MacCready regrets ever doing anything. “Oh.”

Daisy’s face morphs into something painful, beside him, and she takes steps closer, cautious and careful. The couch creaks a little when she sits on the edge of the seat, dipping in her weight.

“I’m so sorry,” Daisy whispers, just barely audible in the too-quiet room, and MacCready sees the way Adust’s eyes go misty the same time she does, when she slowly wraps her arms around him. It’s one beat, and then another, and then Adust’s arms go scrabbling up to hold her right back, and — and for some reason it’s better, that way, the tension in the room melting. Still hurts, the grief palpable in the air, so familiar MacCready can taste the bitterness of loss in the back of his own throat, but better this than empty. Better this than nothing at all.

Still. It’s not — he feels  _awkward_ , standing in the doorway like this, watching over them. Like, he  _gets_  it, god, he really gets it, but they’re mourning over people MacCready’s never met. Has only ever heard stories of from their reverent tongues, and now that his ‘duty’ is done, he just feels slightly misplaced and very, very tired.

So he slowly takes his steps to the hallway, leaving the two behind as he looks for a place to rest. The house he and Adust were sleeping in before is being taken up by the trader and a few passing wanderers, so he doesn't have much of a choice unless he disturbs the others. He’ll have to be creative in figuring out a place to sleep, he figures — no way in hell is he gonna be some awkward third wheel lying in the corner of the room while Adust and Daisy mourn, and both Adust’s old bedroom and the room with the crib feel way too personal for MacCready to invade. It’s not his place.

In the end, he lays his bedroll down on the tiny, barely movable space between what Adust called a laundry machine and the wall, and settles down there. It’s a cramped squeeze, but it’s either this or the bathroom, which has a leak in the roof and a damp floor and MacCready can do better with less space than pneumonia _and_ hypothermia, thanks.

The only real drawback beyond the space, MacCready thinks, is that it’s open to the hallway, and so MacCready can hear  _everything_. Every whispered word, every apology, every sob that brings MacCready back to the dusty floors of Fort Hagen. Now he feels like a voyeur and that’s almost worse, except if he tries to block that out his thoughts just go to the next worst thing — thinking about Duncan, about Kellogg, about the institute and what they  _know_. Here he is, lying cramped up on the floor of some tiny room in a crumbling pre-war house, and his own kid is hundreds of miles away. Barely breathing, and now MacCready doesn’t even know if he’s safe where he is.

It takes him a long, long while of MacCready jamming his eyes shut before his body takes the hint and lets him sleep.

MacCready wakes up twice after. Once, when he hears the sound of the couch creaking and footsteps in the living room —  _it’s been so long, are you sure_  —  _I can’t do this alone, I, I feel, I mean_  —  _it’ll be better like this, she’s found her rest, it’s about time we found ours_  — but he’d fallen asleep again immediately after, once he heard the front door shut and his brain informed him of the lack of threat, the exhaustion grabbing at him and pulling him back down into sleep.

When he wakes up the second time, it’s already getting dark out, and MacCready shoots up, wincing as his spine cracks at the movement.  _Sh — shoot_ , it’s cold, and did he sleep through an entire day? He whips is arms out to stretch, forgetting where he is and slamming his knuckles accidentally against the side of the freezing cold washing machine. He hisses muffled curses under his breath, angrily shaking the ache out of his hands before he gets to his feet, bones and joints creaking and cracking.

He doesn’t have enough layers on, and it’s cold enough in the drafty house that MacCready can see his breaths out before him, misting before dissipating into thin air. It takes him a little longer than that to realize his own breathing is all he  _can_  hear. He doesn’t hear any voices coming from the living room even as MacCready strains his drowsy ears. Are they asleep? Has he slept  _that_  long that it’s the next night already?

Or — not, apparently, as he quietly gets to his feet and walks out. Turns to look at the living room. It’s not as dark out as he thinks — there’s still the barely traceable edges of daylight still left in the room, cold and dim in the winter’s evening. MacCready notices the room’s only other person immediately: Daisy, on the couch, spine curled forward as she rests her forearms on her knees. There’s a lit cigarette between knobby and gnarled fingers, the smoke trail fading into open air, and when she puts it to her mouth and sets the cherry bright, a familiar longing for nicotine sticks to the roof of MacCready’s throat.

He makes some kind of noise at some point, because pitch black eyes come to look at him. She half-smiles, and the smoke trails from the corner of her mouth. MacCready wonders how no one’s fallen in love with her yet; she’s beautiful.

“Sleepin’ beauty’s finally up.” Daisy says, rough and quiet in the dimming room. “Sit down. It’s almost dark.”

“Finally decided you want a piece of this?” MacCready manages to joke, and snickers genuinely when Daisy snorts and says  _smartass_  under her breath, scooting to her side so MacCready has room to sit. He leans back against the dusty cushions, stifles a yawn on the back of his aching knuckles until his jaw clicks. Daisy just takes another drag of the cigarette, and he watches the reedy hollows of her throat inhale the smoke, wearing the cold, dim light around her like a sweater.

“You want one?” Daisy finally asks, offering him the cigarette pack.

MacCready eyes them, tempted, before shaking his head. “Nah.” Because he wants a real meal first. And then, “Thanks.”

Daisy’s smile twitches back up. “Always good manners with you.”

“Only for you, Daize.” MacCready half-smiles back, and Daisy seems to laugh a bit in her throat. The next stretch of silence is a little more comfortable, stretches between them like an old blanket. MacCready takes what he can get of the quiet, his head doing the same. He needs a little peace from the war in his head. The anxiety, the questions. Adust,  _Duncan_.

Daisy is the one to break the fragile quiet, extinguishing the cigarette with her own fingers. Not like it hurts, with how leathery her skin is. “He’s gonna be alright. Not right now, but he will be.”

And MacCready knows exactly who she’s talking about. And he wants to believe it, even though it seems — painfully doubtful, right now.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, quieter than he thought he would be. Watches her fingers still rubbing against the cigarette butt in her hands. “Where is he?”

“With her. Jennifer.” Daisy answers, shutting her eyes and finally flicking the butt away. MacCready has half a mind to tell her that they’ll be sleeping on this floor tonight, and then thinks better of it. The world’s covered in nuclear ash. What’s a little cigarette butt gonna do? “Up — or, down rather, in the vault. He needs some time with her.”

MacCready straightens up at that, frowning, eyes growing a little wider, himself a bit more awake. “Alone? In the vault — that’s, what if — “

“It’s not far from here. Just over the hill, right behind.” Daisy answers, doesn’t even need to hear the end of his words to know his worry. “The vault is secure, don’t worry about it. I was there with him earlier. He’ll be fine.”

MacCready frowns, unsure. Is about to voice is out, actually — because how can she know, because vaults are  _dangerous_ , there’s one out in the ‘Wealth that’s just infested with Gunners, how does she know this one is any different, it’s been months since Adust crawled out and what if something else has crawled inside in the meantime — when he finally pauses to notice the somber look on Daisy’s own face. The tension in her posture, how strands of her wig are falling loose over her face. Ghouls can’t cry, not really, but only now MacCready notices the unmistakeable shine of dampness around her eyes, and he feels almost ashamed with how he’d missed it.

He’d brought Daisy here  _because_  she’s known them first, after all.

“Daize,” MacCready says, slow, letting go of his own tension, “You okay?”

Daisy laughs. Sort of. It’s low, raspy, and it shakes in a way MacCready has only heard once before. She shakes her head a little, leans back on the couch with him. “Sure. Just haven’t — I haven’t seen her in a long, long time, is all.” She blows the stray strands of fake hair out of her face. Crosses her arms and shuts her eyes. “Just as pretty as she was the last time we met. Would be a whole lot prettier without that bullethole in her head, but, well.”

MacCready feels something ache a little at that. Out of sympathy, if nothing else, probably — that’s the one thing he’ll never feel, and maybe it’s the best blessing he’s got. He doesn’t have to worry about being two hundred years out of time. MacCready’s suffered losses in his twenty two years of life, and they’ve already hurt him, right down to the barest bones of his soul and engraved themselves there so he’ll never forget, threatening to swallow him whole sometimes. Daisy is over two hundred and seventy five. How her bones haven’t turned to dust yet is something he’ll never understand, and what he'll always respect at her over. Men have crumbled over less.

“I’m sorry.” MacCready says, and feels lousy about it, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He grimaces, and tries again. “I’m... really sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Daisy says, and her voice cracks a little but stays stable, despite it all. Raises a hand and slips the stray strands of brown hair back behind her ear. “Two hundred years, I thought she’d died in the blast. S’pose she did, in the end, but at least it was a quick bullet. Better than the radiation. That one’s never been kind none. Not to me. Not to Hank, even though he got off easy. Dead and gone before the bombs hit. Bastard of a husband, leavin’ me all alone for the apocalypse.”

MacCready shifts in closer, here. Daisy isn’t the touchy-feely type, not really — but damn it,  _I’m sorry_  just doesn’t cut it, and Daisy’s one of the only people he’s got on his side these days. One of the closest people he’s got to family, here in the wealth, in the wasteland. For a moment, he feels a vicious protectiveness stir in his belly, a lit coal in his chest, the same kind that happened when Adust was in his arms in Fort Hagen. Makes him want to protect them from the rest of the world — they’re hurt enough.

So he sits beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder. Squeezes a little, and feels something loosen in his chest when she looks surprised at him, before one of her hands covers his fingers and squeezes back.

“Look at you. Makin’ me a softie.” Daisy half-smirks, before it melts into something softer. Gentler, if Daisy could ever be described as gentle. “You’ve got a damn good heart, MacCready. I hope you know that.”

MacCready snorts here, even though the words echo bitter in his ribs. He’s been told that before. The last person who’d believed it is lying beneath dirt and rubble and rotted ferals now, miles and miles and miles away from anywhere she’d call home. She hadn’t even known the truth, and when MacCready opens his mouth to speak again he finds the words sticking harder to the roof of his teeth than it did before.

“People with good hearts don’t murder for a living, Daize.” MacCready answers, and he hates how his voice sounds so unsteady. “They don’t lie and steal and cheat.”

“And people with bad hearts don’t sit around to comfort sentimental old ghouls.” Daisy counters, and he hates even more how even her voice is. Hates even more the smallest sliver of warmth in his belly at the praise he doesn’t even believe in. “They don’t trek halfway across the Commonwealth and back overnight just to help a vault dweller with one of the most dangerous mercs in the wastes.”

“Only cause I didn’t know what else to do.” MacCready says, scowling to himself. Doesn’t look her in the eye. “Doesn’t make me a good person, Daize.”

Daisy  _hmms_ , and lets her hand slip from his. He drops his arm too, but they sit shoulder to shoulder anyway, warmth shared from the contact.

“Gotta ask you then,” Daisy finally says, the dim waning light catching the contours of her face, looking right at him, “Why're you still here?”

The question throws him off. He looks back at her, brow cocked. “What?”

“Here. With  _him_.” Daisy shrugs. “Ain’t like you’ve known him before all this. Ain’t like you can’t get the caps anywhere else. ‘specially now, he’s not gonna be doin’ so hot for awhile, you know that as well as I do. You don't gotta stay, you never had to. Didn't even have to follow him there. You say you didn't know what else to do, but you know as well as I do that you could'a just walked away. But you're still here. Why’re you still here?”

MacCready. Doesn’t know how to answer, that. His words from what feels like forever ago now, on the roof of Arturo’s home in Diamond City, comes back to his head — but it doesn’t feel quite right anymore. It’s not... It’s not that simple.

Maybe because there isn’t much to say. Maybe because there’s  _too_  much to say. 

It’s all still true, sure. But things change, after all, when you see all of someone’s broken parts in your hands. MacCready just doesn’t know what the change  _is_ , just yet. MacCready doesn’t know, but he thinks there’s something behind those dark eyes that makes MacCready think they’re worth protecting, right from the start.

In the end, though, his mind settles back on Duncan. Lucy. Remembers the days before all of this, back right when things got from bad to worse, when the tunnels collapsed and his baby boy turned blue in his arms — he remembers how  _alone_  he’d been. These days, it’s been easy to shove it away in his head, able to tuck away the mourning and focus on Duncan getting better, but he remembers how alone things were. He didn’t have anyone, before Daisy, before he’d begged for Joseph and Princess to take him in. And he’d been alone after leaving Duncan with them, had been alone going into the Commonwealth, alone enough that no one stopped him before he handed his humanity to the Gunners in exchange for caps and a place to sleep.

He could’ve used someone in his corner, then. Could’ve used a shoulder to lean on. Maybe he’s wrong about this, maybe it’s different for Adust, but Adust is, at his core, good. And he doesn’t deserve to go through that same misery.

“He deserves better.” MacCready answers, finally, even though he knows its not quite right. It’s the closest MacCready’s got to what feels correct, though, so he keeps by it. “Being alone after something like this, it can — it can really mess with your head. Make people do stupid things. He doesn’t — he deserves better than falling down that road. He’s a good guy.”

It’s close enough, and MacCready just shrugs again, feeling weirdly vulnerable after the fact. And Daisy —

Daisy smiles at him, from his shoulder, small and fond, and says; “You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Robbie.”

MacCready scowls, turning to glare at her. “You  _asked_.”

“Never said it was a bad reason. Just — “ and she snorts, shaking her head. “You don’t even listen to yourself, do you, sugar? No — don’t answer me, it’s fine. You’ll figure it out eventually. You two — you might be good for each other.”

“What does  _that_  mean?” MacCready frowns, brows furrowed.

“You’ll see.” Daisy smirks, and snorts at the elbow he bumps to her arm.

“Can you  _stop_  being cryptic?” MacCready tries, even though her little chuckle is enough to erase any kind of frustration he’s got, “It’s frustrating.”

Daisy swats his arm away. “I’m old, I’m allowed to be cryptic and frustratin’. Where else am I gonna get my entertainment these days, cable?”

He... doesn’t get what she means by that, and he actually feels almost  _bad_  for not getting it, when he sees her smile fall, turning back to her cigarettes and plucking another one out. It’s another frustrating thing — all the old world references he just can’t get, no matter how hard he tries to imagine it. But there’s nothing he can do about it, so he just lets it go, while the flicker of her flame lights between her fingers from the rusty old lighter and she takes a deep drag. MacCready leans back, and breathes the smoke in. It doesn’t count if he’s not the one lighting it.

“You’re not headin’ back to Goodneighbour yet, right?” Daisy pipes up, somewhere after that long bout of silence, MacCready’s got no idea how long.

He glances back at her. “Nah, not yet. You said the caravan’s only coming down on the weekend, and they need time to stop over and trade, right? I’ll head down in a couple more days.”

Daisy nods. Gazes out the window and purses her not-lips, smoke trailing out from her not-nose like a dragon from those old war books. By MacCready’s count, it’s not a bad resemblance.

“We might need your help.” Daisy says, after a beat, dark eyes turning towards him. “Tomorrow. We’re planning to bury her.”

MacCready’s brows rise. There’s no need for names, here. “Are you serious?”

“Mmhm. Ain’t no honour, keepin’ her frozen down there like that, like a sack of meat. ‘Bout time we move on anyway. Adust and myself, both. Closure. ‘fore the ground freezes up completely and makes it harder to do.” Daisy nods, eyes looking right into his. “We could use some help movin’ the body. If you’re alright with it.” 

Her voice grows softer, there at the end, and MacCready pretends his heart doesn’t suddenly twinge in pain. Pretends he doesn’t know exactly what she’s implying. For a moment, MacCready feels an overwhelming bitterness consume him, come up his throat like bile, his own mistakes and regrets, buried hundreds of miles away under the crumbling ruin of an old subway and nowhere near home.

But then it’s gone. The bitter aftertaste still on his tongue but he’s grown used to willing it away, shoving the last of his mourning for her into his heart like he has been all these years without her. No time for grief in the wasteland, not when he’s had his baby boy to look after. He can apologize when he’s dead, and he's mourned for long enough. He can miss her some more when he’s done with everything he’s got to do, and this is just another thing he’s got to do.

( God, but he misses Lucy, though. )

“Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Of course.”

Daisy smiles, nudging his shoulder, smoke curling out from between her teeth. “No wonder you’re so tired all the time. Luggin’ around that heart of gold.”

This time, MacCready doesn’t say anything about it, even when his chest fills with doubt. Even as he knows his own demons and their proximity to his heart, his own acceptance of everything he’s left behind. Just  _hmm_ s, while Daisy nudges his shoulder, and then leans her head on it. They spend a good hour like this — on the couch of a broken down home, breathing slow, cherry bright at the end of her cigarette, smoke trailing around them like a tether to scorched earth.

 

* * *

 

 

MacCready’s man enough to admit that the huge elevator platform on top of the hill freaks the  _heck_  out of him when it comes to life, monstrous groans as it starts to descend. He has to stick his arms out to catch his balance, eyes wide, and he feels like an absolute wuss after, coughing awkwardly to cover himself up. But he at least manages to get himself back together before anyone can point out his unsteadiness, and the circle of the sky gets smaller the more they descend. MacCready thinks there’s probably something poetic about that, even though he can’t think of the words; something about coming back to the ground from where he came, years and years after he’s left.

It’s a stark contrast between him and the other three on the platform with him. Preston, running up from the big red button and hopping onto the platform before it gets too low,  _somehow_  making disheveled look good and dressed in his smartest, cleanest Minuteman outfit, smoothed down to his lapels. Even Daisy looks smart, smarter than he’s ever seen her — he’s never seen that suit before, dark and pressed clean, probably newly bought from the traders that came in early yesterday from Bunker Hill. It makes MacCready feel more and more out of place — his green button up is about the smartest thing he’s got, faded and worn to all hell. It’ll have to do. (He buttons the top button on his collar though. Just in case.)

The only person who might look worse is the man standing a few feet away from his side. Dark circles on pale skin under red-rimmed eyes, lips bitten red and raw, in a dark-grey suit with stains on the legs that look way, way too thin to be any good at keeping the bitter winter out. At least his hair’s back to good shape, braided and falling over his shoulder. MacCready figures Daisy’s the one to thank for that — Adust’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since they met up in front of the common house and made their trek up to the hill.

(For a second, MacCready feels the sudden urge to walk over. Close the distance between them, the inches and centimetres until they’re shoulder to shoulder, side by side again. They’ve been attached at the hip for so long that suddenly the distance feels like a gaping divide, and MacCready wonders for a second about the sudden protectiveness he’s gained over his old boss.

Partner, now.

The feeling goes as fast as it comes though. This isn’t about MacCready, or either of them, really. In the vacancy he’s left, Daisy fills up the space as if she can read his thoughts, standing at Adust’s side and taking one of his shaking hands into her own. No, this isn’t about MacCready at all. And so he keeps his hands hanging loosely at his side, and watches as the sky above them closes up.)

The vault, when they finally get down to it, is — it’s  _something_ , that’s for damn sure.

There something about vaults and being so clean it feels  _dirty_. Like every other vault MacCready’s been in, it’s echoing in it’s emptiness, their footsteps loudly announcing their presence as they climb the metal staircase, and like every other vault MacCready’s been in, there’s skeletons  _everywhere_. Everything in here looks like it hasn’t been touched in years — perfectly preserved cigarette packs MacCready can see still sealed on desktops, clean white paper with crisp, clear writing spilling out of drawers. Only thing that’s new in here are the rotting radroach remains on the ground, already starting to smell. MacCready wrinkles his nose at them as he passes, flanking the other three, and follows them down the hallway.

It’s eerie, the cold emptiness of the halls, the, the — it’s just so  _impersonal,_ and MacCready can’t think of how they could’ve ever thought a place like this would be livable. Coming back underground, MacCready thinks of Little Lamplight. Rocky ceilings, rickety bridges, a literal hole in the ground. A ramshackle home, pieced together by hundreds of tiny fists, the bruised young knuckles of the wasteland’s unwanted children, built from the ground up with whatever pieces they could find. It was crappy but it was home — and here, among the distilled cleanliness of a professionally made pre-war vault, MacCready thinks of home again and thinks about how this  _isn’t_.

But he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s not that insensitive. He lets Ads and Daisy lead the way, whispering to each other in a place where whispering is impossible, and MacCready just keeps his focus elsewhere, trying not to eavesdrop. He already feels uncomfortable being down here, like he doesn’t belong. A step or two in front of him, even Preston looks awkward. MacCready takes solace in that, at least.

The creepiest room out of all of them, though, is by far the cryo chambers. MacCready’s stomach flips when he walks through, uneasy. The faces of dozens of Adust’s old neighbours, frozen in cold death, staring down at them — there’s shivers up his spine, and for a moment he wonders about ghosts, and all the pre-war books he’s read about them. Killed like this, left to rot and thaw, the  _smell_  — and then they come to a stop in front of one pod in particular, and MacCready’s train of thought grinds to a screeching, heavy halt.

In front of them, MacCready sees dark hair, pale skin, glasses over eyelids gently shut. Almost like sleeping, like rest, beyond the dark hole in the centre of her forehead, and the blood trail frozen down the bridge of her nose.

“Is that — “ MacCready slips out, immediately wincing at his mistake, biting his tongue. Too late; the echo of his voice sounds like a gunshot down here, and he hopes he didn’t already screw up.

But no one glares at him, and he’s surprised when Adust is the one to speak up, with a voice cracking and wet and falling apart at the edges, saying, “Yeah. That’s — that’s her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Preston says, respectfully quiet, and bows his head a little. Tips his stupid cowboy hat. MacCready feels naked without his own cap.

“Beautiful as the last time I saw her.” Daisy says, quiet and full of grief, and MacCready feels his throat go tight in its familiarity. She looks at Adust, though, and nods. “It’s time.”

He sees Adust swallow, harsh, adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat before the guy nods back. When a shaking hand comes up and presses the button by the side of the pod and the door lifts up, MacCready winces for a second as the cold air blows out, and then clears. Without the pod door in the way, it’s easier to see her than through frosted glass — her short stature, her dark hair, tied in a ponytail, her glasses fogged up in the sudden temperature dip. She looks so different from Adust, from her button nose to the soft swell of her belly. She looks — peaceful, almost, even in death, like she’s just sleeping, while Adust stands in front of her body and trembles hard enough that MacCready wonders if he’ll crumble apart.

MacCready feels his stomach flip, uneasy with it all, feels like he’s intruding into something he’s got no part in, meeting Jennifer this way. He’s heard a lot about her, painted the image in his mind of someone good, so immensely  _good_  that she’d changed lives, rocked worlds, whole universes. The picture painted in his mind is vibrant and alive — meeting her like this, cold and thawing and lifeless, feels like he’s doing her a disservice seeing her this way.

He bows his head, both out of respect and because it’s hard to keep looking at her. Beside him, Preston’s slipping the white cloth from off his shoulder and unfolding it onto the floor. Daisy unfurls the fabric in her own hand, reveals a pretty yellow dress, pre-war and only sort of aged. Adust makes a low, unhappy noise as he reaches out, slowly, to lower his wife down from the pod — and MacCready looks away properly then, helping Preston smoothen out the large rectangle of stained white fabric.

Daisy helps change Jennifer’s thawing body out of the vault suit and into the dress. MacCready and Preston both know instinctively not to look, both of them turned away while the other two do their thing. When Daisy calls for them to turn back and help, Jennifer’s already fully dressed — dark hair still in that ponytail, eyes still shut, but in that nice yellow dress and the bloodstain from her forehead wiped away, bangs arranged to cover the hole. A familiar blue spaceship baby blanket, folded up and respectfully put under her folded hands. MacCready bites his lip. Shakes it off. Helps Preston lift her onto the white cloth, and then they twist up the ends and haul her up, and out, as if carrying her on a hammock.

MacCready is more careful about this than anything he’s done in the past year, more gentle than he’s been with anything lately beyond his son. He takes the ends with her feet, while Preston carries the other end, and together they bring her back to the platform, MacCready’s heart cold and beating in his chest, terrified of screwing this up. He’s holding something, some _one_  so personal, here — the last thing he wants to do is trip and drop her. The thought of it’s enough to make him tighten his grip, as the elevator stutters to life and brings them back up to the surface.

The sky comes back up to greet them, and the morning sun is good on his skin, even through the winter’s bitter chill. They make their way back down the hill, carefully. MacCready leading them, knuckles white holding the white cloth bunched in his fists, Preston behind him. Daisy on his right, and Adust on his left, making the slow march to the farther side of Sanctuary, near the waterside, among the groups of dead and withered trees. Sturges is already there, shovel in dirt-smeared hands, along with a handful of other Sanctuary residents, standing beside a pile of dirt, a large wooden plank and a deep-dug hole.

Preston and MacCready settle Jennifer down beside it, onto the expanse of wood, as gentle as they can, MacCready’s heart in his throat as he places his end of the fabric by her feet. The Sanctuary morning is painfully quiet, and he still feels so — so  _uneasy_ , like he shouldn’t be here, that he’s not supposed to be privy for something like this. When he straightens up and steps back, the grave seems so vast for a second that his heart rattles in its cage. Blooms with pain.  _Would Lucy have wanted this?_  He wonders, before biting his inner cheek and shaking it away. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she deserved, it was better than being left underground, under crumbling ruin and ferals. At least she’d made her final decision her own.

A hand nudges his side. MacCready blinks back to reality, turns and meets Adust’s eyes. They’re red-rimmed, wet, tear tracks glistening on sharp cheeks, but they’re looking,  _really_  looking, at him. In pain, but present. Questioning. MacCready wants to laugh, almost, in disbelief.  _Dumbass_ , he thinks, because of course Adust would notice his own unease at something as personal as a funeral and  _still_  take the time to make sure MacCready’s alright.

MacCready doesn’t say it out loud though. Just nods, and touches Adust’s hand back with the back of his own. Jerks his head to where she lays, to begin the ceremony, to end the longing. Closure.

Adust actually mouths  _thank you_ , and MacCready feels his heart clench as the guy takes the first steps forward towards her. When he looks up, Daisy’s looking right at him. She smiles wetly, too.

MacCready doesn’t know how funerals work before the war, but he knows the basics of it all. That much hasn’t changed at least, in the wasteland. Not everyone has the chance to bury the dead, more lost in the scorched earth and the decrepit buildings in the hands of trigger-happy raiders or muties or whatever than anything else, but. MacCready’s seen the headstones, the markings of graves from people dead centuries before him. It’s the same as it is now, when people can afford to. A hole in the ground and a marking, or burning. Anything, really, better than being slung up on some raider’s pike or getting eaten by feral mutts.

MacCready knows he’s done his own fair share of burying. More than, he figures — being mayor of a whole cavern of children means responsibility. Never mattered that he was a kid himself, that he barely learnt how to roll up his sleeves when he first took position. The wasteland doesn't have a history of being kind to anyone, and not every kid dumped at Little Lamplight’s entrance were in perfect health. Not every kid would make it through to their sixteenth. There were babies who couldn’t make it past their first winter, kids with holes in their hearts like holes in their teeth or with messed up lungs that made laughing with everyone else hard. There were a lot of kids like that. Plenty. Too many.

MacCready can’t say he remembers all their names, but he remembers all their faces, and this; the feeling of soil under his fingernails, digging dirt with the other, older lamplighters, laughing until the laughing fades away, or the final tiny heartbeat makes its last presence known. He remembers putting down small body after small body into graves not too far from Little Lamplight, too shallow, but better that than being left out for the dogs. Better to be buried wanted and loved and known than casting them out in the first place, even though MacCready knows it’d hurt less if they turned away the less fortunate from the get-go.

He’s never been able to do it. The wasteland’s unwanted children — it was his job, damn it, to look after each and all of them. No matter what. Because they were all the unwanted children, healthy or not, and they had to band together — together was all they had.

And this, with Jennifer. With Adust. It reminds him of how it was back then — the grave never feeling like quite enough, because holes in the ground or licking fire or even carved stones don’t match up to how much these people deserved. Because a headstone on cold ground just tells jack-all about the person lying six feet under. It’s a damn shame, is what it is, but they have to make do. Not like they have a choice. At least Adust will be the one to bury her. At least Daisy’s here, an old friend.

( He didn’t have a choice with Lucy, either. )

MacCready wonders if funerals were more elaborate way back when, more fancy and over-the-top like old worlders made everything else to be. If it was, Adust and Daisy don’t show it — there’s nothing big about the way Adust falls to his knees by Jennifer’s side, nothing huge about how he takes her cold, pale hand into his own shaking one and strokes the thawing skin with his thumb. The guy’s hunched over, crying, shoulders shaking, and he’s saying something but it’s quiet, in a language MacCready’s wholly unfamiliar with. Daisy comes up in a few beats, and settles down on her own knees beside him, hand on his back, fingers splayed wide on his shirt. Everyone else keeps a safe distance, heads bowed. 

For a long, long while, there’s nothing but the stretch of silence, and the sound of underlying crying, and broken whispers, and the faint baying of hounds farther off. And then Adust and Daisy finally stand, and Daisy makes a sort of movement with her hand, and one of the settlers walk over to her and hand her a basket, filled to the brim with hubflowers and carrot flowers. They’d picked it early on, while the four of them made the trip to the vault. MacCready knows. He’d seen them, right as he’d stepped out of the house, way, way too early in the morning.

They lay the flowers down around Jennifer, Adust and Daisy. He wonders if  _this_  is some kind of pre-war thing, but he doesn’t say anything, just hangs back and watches. Carrot flowers tucked behind her ear. Hubflowers at her sides. She looks — she looks like a damn pre-war portrait, pretty and poetic, and MacCready thinks maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

( And it’s a relief, in it’s own way. He’d been afraid — scared that once they lower her into the ground, he’d really start seeing something else in that grave. Someone else.

Not so much, now. Lucy was fire and smoke, gunpowder and ashes. Jennifer is not. With that, MacCready pushes the thought of Lucy back to her special place in the back of his mind, and focuses back on the funeral.)

It really looks like she’s sleeping when they’re done with her. Napping in a bed of flowers, before they drape another translucent white cloth over her body. Almost jars him when Preston taps his shoulder and jerks his head to the body, and holds up the two pieces of rope. MacCready’s been standing so long he feels his knees creak and pop when he finally steps forward, taking one piece and handing the other to Daisy. Together they thread it under the wood that holds her, securing it in the notches Sturges almost definitely put there himself. For a second, MacCready feels the same feeling come back again, surging — he’s not supposed to be here, what right does he have to be here — but then he looks at Adust, looks at Daisy, and it goes before it can linger.

Between the four of them, Jennifer isn’t as heavy as MacCready’s thought, even with the wood beneath her. Lowering her down into the grave is trickier, but they do it without dropping or slipping anything, and once she’s laying at the bottom, he and Adust carefully drop the rope for Preston and Daisy to pull up on their end. Sturges comes up after, with his shovel, presses a hand to Adust’s shoulder, and once he’s given the nod he passes the word back to another one of the settlers, a brown-haired and tanned lady who has muscles popping up under her winter jacket, and they start shoveling the soil back in.

It’s a process, and one by one the other settlers start filing away, saying some sort of condolences as they leave to head back to the daily work. Still got stuff to do, after all. Until all who’s left are Sturges, the digger lady, Preston, Daisy, and MacCready himself. And Jennifer, sort of. The quiet hangs heavy between them all, but there’s something else that MacCready can’t place either, hanging frustratingly at the tip of his tongue that he can’t quite catch.

He thinks about it until he hears a broken sob again. Flickers his gaze up to see Adust hunched back over, crying, and — Daisy too, as much as ghouls can, her head against his shoulder, hand in hand. MacCready’s heart aches. These two are the closest — they’re about as close as he has to family, down here, miles and miles and miles away from home. He doesn’t have a say in this, he doesn’t know how to help or make anything better, he’s good at ripping things apart and planting bullets in skulls —

But he steps forward anyway. Hesitantly puts a hand on Adust’s shoulder. Adust’s breath hitches, for just a second, before the hand he has draped at his side —the one Daisy isn’t holding — suddenly reaches out. Grabs MacCready’s shirt, and holds on. MacCready bites his cheek hard enough to taste metal, and steps in closer. Looks down at the grave slowly being filled back up, and even though he’s got no right to be here for her, he’s here for the other two. The ones left alive. The ones left behind.

 _Rest easy_ , he thinks, looking down at where she used to be. Hopes, distantly, that somewhere out there she hears him.  _I’ve got ‘em, now._

 

* * *

 

 

MacCready gets called away almost immediately after they walk back to Sanctuary. Something about a turret, or whatever, MacCready doesn’t remember because Sturges was already there by the time MacCready’d finished explaining for the ten billionth time that _I know rifles, jerkhead, not turrets_  — and by the time MacCready gets back to the common house, Adust is gone.

Doesn’t take MacCready long to find him though. He’s not the smartest guy around, but he’s got enough wits about him to put one and one together, and heads just across the street, to Adust’s old house. Around old, crumbling walls with more holes in them than actual wall, on barely-trodden grass, right to the back where MacCready sees him; Adust on the ground, sitting, head tilted back against the place, eyes shut, Dogmeat at his side with his big head on his lap. There are teartracks glistening on Adust’s cheeks. Dogmeat lets out a faint whine when he sees MacCready, and a sadder tail thump.

“Hey,” MacCready says, slow, when he approaches. Doesn’t wanna surprise the guy. “You alright?”

He winces as soon as it leaves his mouth.  _Stupid question_ , he scolds himself,  _guy just buried his wife._  

Adust doesn’t say anything like that though. Just cracks open his eyes, tears still on his lashes and probably freezing out in the cold, and half smiles. It’s not a big smile, barely there and flickering and  _sad_  but it’s better than a fake one. Better because he’s trying. MacCready’ll take this anyday, and when Adust gently pats the ground next to him, MacCready takes the spot with an  _oof_.

“How is your butt  _not_  numb from this?” MacCready complains, just a little, settling his back against the house.  _Cripes_ , but the ground is cold. “F — friggin’ heck — “

“’s my superpower.” Adust replies. Voice cracked, raw from crying, eyes shutting and head lolling a little. “Indestructible ass.”

Dogmeat huffs a little in Adust’s lap. The guy’s hand drifts to the big furried head, scratches behind the ears. MacCready feels himself relax a little, some of the tension he didn’t even know he had leaving his system. Guy can joke. He’ll take that as a good sign. He lifts a hand and brings it to Dogmeat’s snout, scratches it a little. Dogmeat gives him an approving little lick, and settles in for a doggy nap.

The sky is nimbus-grey overhead. In the distance, MacCready can make out the sound of voices and chatter, probably the traders or the settlers. The sound of a creaky waterpump. He wonders where Daisy went off to.

“Y’know, I.” Adust suddenly breaks the silence, voice cracking at the edges, makes MacCready blink and turn to glance at him, “I kind of wanted to plant something here. Before the bombs.”

MacCready raises a brow. “Yeah?”

Adust nods. “Yeah. Was thinking rose bushes. Or, um. Any kind of flowers, really. We weren’t ever the — hah — we were never the barbecuing type, so. Figured flowers would be nice. Better than never using this backyard.”

“Sounds uh. Pretty.” MacCready offers. Hates how badly he’s handling this. Tries again. “I’ve seen some pre-war roses. In books ‘nd stuff.”

“Yeah. Or, you know, anything else really — “ Adust says, and then his voice breaks again, except it’s a huff of a laugh this time. Sad, but. “She  _hated_  the idea though. Jennifer.”

“Seriously?” MacCready snorts, feels a corner of his lips twitch up without meaning to.

The corner of Adust’s mouth twitches up too, eyes cracking open to stare at the garden fence. “Mmhm. She thought they’d be too much work, take up too much space — but I’m pretty sure she only said it because she wanted a dog instead. Got a bowl picked out and everything.”

Dogmeat hears the first half of his name, and gives a short, low  _whuff_ , tail thumping twice. MacCready huffs a little, scratches his snout again. “Well. I mean  — I guess she got what she wanted, huh.”

Adust smiles, and its the saddest thing MacCready’s ever seen. “Yeah. She would’ve — Dogmeat, she’d have loved him.”

Dogmeat wags his tail slowly at his name, eyes slowly slipping shut on his master’s lap, and the way Adust says  _her_  makes MacCready’s chest ache something familiar. He knows the hurt. Knows it intimately, has had it buried for years, no time to mourn her when he’s got Duncan to keep alive — but Adust doesn’t have that. Not anymore. His world, his wife, his kid; gone, just like that. MacCready can’t imagine.

(He can. He can. He doesn’t want to.)

For a moment, he wonders if he should leave Adust alone. Wonders if it’s alright for him to be here, maybe the guy needs his space. MacCready knows the hurt of it all, knows the vulnerability, how that’s scary in and of itself.

But he also knows, though, the kind of emptiness that settles. The swooping hollow so vast when he thinks of her sometimes that he has to stop whatever he’s doing, has to shut his eyes and blink the burning away behind them. Remembering her hurts. Knowing she won’t ever come back, won’t ever see the sun again, won’t ever hear her laugh again — but forgetting is  _worse._ Forgetting means losing her smile forever in his mind, forgetting means losing the fire that’s kept the last of his humanity warm in the back of his conscience, and when he looks at Adust he sees himself and — for that MacCready settles back against the house. Tries to get comfortable on the cold ground, says; “Tell me about her.”

Adust blinks. Glances over, almost questioning, a sort of  _are you sure_  there but MacCready doesn’t break the gaze. Just nods. Adust swallows.

In the end, he says; “She was strong.”

Adust’s voice cracks, trembles. Dogmeat whines a little. MacCready moves before he can think, shifts just that much closer. Closes the distance, just barely, just shoulder to shoulder, and feels something a little warm in his chest when he feels Adust’s shoulders relax.  _I did that._  A deep breath. MacCready nudges his shoulder,  _go on_ , and Adust — does.

Adust tells him about her, slow, but sure.  _She was always the stronger one, between the two of us. Bullheaded, smarter than anyone I know._ Adust tells him  _she had to work twice as hard to be half as respected, but she did it anyway, did everything with her whole heart no matter what, she’d get it done even if it meant crying and screaming through the night and working herself to the bone ‘til sunrise_.

( “She’s — she’s always been so  _bright_ , so full of everything, when she’s happy she’s the brightest person in the world, could power the city with her smile, and when she’s upset, I — you know, one time, one of her law cases, I saw her  _chuck_  a book the size of my head across the room just, just angry and crying and frustrated.” Adust laughs, tears in his voice, but the laughter is genuine too and for that MacCready quirks half a smile without thinking about it. “I think — I think she’d freak out, if she saw the wasteland, but —  she would’ve torn the world apart, looking for Shaun. Would do it even if it meant screaming and crying and tearing through the earth until her nails come up bloody. She never — I don’t think  _half-assing_  existed for her. Not then. Not ever.” )

MacCready listens, quiet, ears trained on every word, eyes watching Adust talk about her, this woman MacCready’s never met, but who’s changed the lives of two of possibly some of the closest people he has in his life right now, beyond Duncan, and the family of Lamplighters strewn across the wasteland. Adust talks about her like a legend, a hero, a fire burning somewhere eternal in the way his words make her out to be, telling little stories about her and remembering, and.

MacCready thinks he hates it, how she went. Crueller than the wasteland, in a way — here people kill out of desperation. Or a show of power to other factions, to scare off threats. Scavvers kill to eat and see tomorrow, even raiders kill for a purpose, whether its to raid supplies or make a show. What Kellogg did — killing, for no reason than because he  _could_ , even when he didn’t have to, even without an audience beyond some other Institute sicko and Adust frozen inside some kind of cold tomb, and MacCready thinks that’s the cruellest thing. A light snuffed out without any reason, leaving two more people in the cold and dark. MacCready hears Adust’s stories about her, vibrant and alive, and can’t match it up to the body he’d seen this morning, surrounded by flowers, draped in white, buried in earth.

( At least Lucy chose her way out. The ferals had ripped her apart from him, but the last laugh was hers. They’d came at them first, but it was her choice, the explosion that rocked their earth and shattered his world.

MacCready, at least, can have a little peace in that. )

“I think,” Adust says, and MacCready doesn’t know how long it’s been but the sky’s starting to turn gold, “Jennifer would’ve liked you.”

Something aches in his chest. Something else warm breaks, and spreads. MacCready doesn’t know why his throat feels stuck, all of a sudden. “Yeah?”

Adust glances over. Smiles despite everything, and it’s — it’s the realest one MacCready’s seen in  _days_. It’s more of a relief than he ever thought it’d be. (He’d thought it was gone forever.)

“Yeah. You guys would’ve made, just, the  _worst_  jokes, done the stupidest things — like a house on fire.” Adust muses, and MacCready snorts. “You’d have liked her a lot too, I think.”

“Don’t doubt it. Sounds like one hell of a lady.” He says, and means every word. Adust laughs, there. Barely, just a ghost of the thing, sadder than it’s got any right to be and MacCready barely catches it, but it’s  _there_.

“She was so strong. And kind. God, she was _kind_.” Adust murmurs, and shuts his eyes. “She’s so — she believes,  _believed,_ so fiercely, in every friend she ever made. Saw the good in every person she ever met. She never  _had_  to, never — she didn’t owe the world  _anything,_ for all the world did to her, and yet, she. She  _believed_ and she loved. She is —  _was_ , so kind, even when it wasn’t wanted, even when it didn’t matter; she was  _kind_ , and she cared, always, unconditionally.

“She was just this, this — this ray of  _hope_ , always, bright and vibrant and powerful no matter what, with her whole heart, she gave and she gave and she gave without ever asking for anything back, gave because she could, because she wanted to, because she had, a, a — a _fire_ , made you believe in yourself whether you liked it or not. Unfailingly loyal, just, unwavering support, and love, and light.” 

Adust’s voice cracks, there, on the last word. MacCready nudges his shoulder, sympathy squeezing at his heart something fierce. Picks up, just a hair, when Adust leans into the touch. Neither of them move away.

“Before her, I — I don't know what I was. Didn't think I'd make it in the world. I didn’t belong anywhere, no one ever wanted me, figured I could never be myself. Was thrown around place to place, just getting by for the sake of it. Could’ve died and no one would know better.” Adust murmurs. “I owe her everything. My, my words, my life, our family, I — she gave me a place to belong, and all she ever asked for in return was just. Me. My company. That’s —  _ha_ , that’s all she ever wanted. And yet. And _I_.”

He’s shaking again, choking on a quiet sob before he can finish his sentence. Small tremors, and MacCready feels useless, and he  _hates_ that there’s not a damn thing he could do about it. He can’t bring Jennifer back to life. Can’t bring  _Kellogg_  back either, if only so MacCready can kill him all over again in for doing this, for taking away someone who meant so much to his friends, for getting inside MacCready’s head about Duncan, and the Capital. For a moment, MacCready wants to leave — wants to go find Daisy, because she’s better equipped for this, because she knew them both, damn it, MacCready’s useless here —

But Adust is leaning against him, a little, warm weight, shoulder to shoulder, and MacCready swallows. Adust is — MacCready sees himself there, in the weight on his shoulders, in the grief in his eyes. And MacCready — he’s long gone, he thinks. A lost cause, sold his morality and his humanity ages ago for a chance to save a son he doesn’t even deserve and a wife he lied to and lost, fighting to be the good man they want him to be and who he knows he could never achieve. MacCready knows there's not a whole lot left going for him — knows he’s a monster, doesn’t deserve anything good anymore, not after he failed to protect Lucy. Not after what happened with Duncan. He lied and he stole and he’s sold his soul and he’s paying the price, knows he’s only keeping on because of Duncan, breaking his soul and spirit and bleeding slowly on the inside to save someone who deserves better.

Adust, though. MacCready can still  _see_  it, the goodness, there’s still something inside him that makes MacCready want to protect him. Makes MacCready think that there’s still a chance for this guy, out here. MacCready sees a man who deserves a better future than the misery MacCready’s got, who deserves better than the aching, raw loneliness that MacCready slogged through for months,  _years_ , after Lucy, and he thinks;  _fuck this_.

“You did what you could.” MacCready tries, and immediately regrets. He doesn’t — there’s really nothing MacCready can say that’ll soften the blow of losing someone so close. MacCready knows. He’s been there. (still is.) “You — you did your best, to find him, to make it up to her. To do right by her. I don’t know her, but I think — I think she’d be proud of you, man.”

He hears a sharp, small intake of breath, there. And then a laugh, small, a little bitter, choked and wet. “I didn’t — I was too late. Took too long with my fucked up head, could’ve worked  _harder_ , and now I don’t — I’ve lost our child. I failed her, I failed them both, and I don’t even have, have a fucking  _body_  to bury, our _son_ , how could she be  _proud_  — “

“Because you  _tried!_  Because you did your  _damn best_ , even though this world’s been trying to straight up  _kill you_  from the start.” MacCready growls, snapping his head to look at Adust, who straightens up, eyes wide and at him. The look makes MacCready’s cheeks flush, and he scowls, turns back away, wills the red on his neck away. “Because you’re still here. You did what you could. Better than anyone could ask for. I would know, alright? I was  _there_. For all of it.”

It’s quiet after that, for a beat or two longer than it has to be, and MacCready wonders if he just. Should  _shut up_  from now on. Wonders if he’s overstepped. But then Adust breathes out, shaky but stable, beside him, and then. There’s a hand, next to MacCready’s. On the ground, the backs of theirs touching. Knuckle to knuckle. MacCready turns to look at Adust again, and something warm breaks over his chest, at the way Adust is looking at him. Eyes soft.  _Gratitude_ , and MacCready knows he doesn’t deserve any of it, but he keeps quiet anyway.

“Yeah, you have been.” Adust says, soft, sad but  _present_ , but smiling all the same even if it’s small and barely-there. Laughs a little, even if it’s damp and trembling. “Partners, huh.”

MacCready doesn’t.  _Know_ , how to respond to that, ignores the way his neck heats up, the pulse that suddenly skips, thrums in his ears. But he nods anyway, because it’s true. Because he doesn’t go back on his word. Because, MacCready thinks the world is  _shit_  and unfair and cruel but there are still people out here, people like Duncan, like Daisy, like Adust. The world is shit and unfair and cruel and MacCready’s always been wary, always prepared for a knife in his back or at his throat at any second, but there are these people. People worth protecting. And MacCready protects his own.

Dogmeat sleeps, comfortably and dozing in his master’s lap, heavy head resting and Adust’s hand still scratching his ear. His other hand rests between the two of them, the back pressed against MacCready’s own. Shoulder to shoulder. Side by side. Shared warmth, unspoken understanding. MacCready doesn’t bother saying anything else. There’s nothing left to say.

The sky grows colder overhead, and they stay until it turns dark, and the winter sun rests for the evening.

 

* * *

 

 

After everything that’s happened, the next few days are surprisingly... normal.

The cold comes rolling in with lower and lower temperatures, and the crops haven’t exactly come in their best yet, since they’d only just started planting proper a couple of months ago, so everyone’s making deals with the traders while they can, snagging food and water and warmth for the wintertime before the trade routes dry up to nothing in the cold. Things will slow down a whole lot in the winter, as they always do. Hostiles on the low while the biggest enemy becomes the elements.

Adust is — still someone to worry about, yeah. MacCready’s not blind, has been at his side for months now and he knows Adust’s gone from restless sleeping to sleeping too much. Barely eats, barely leaves the house, too much of a chore. But,  _but_ , when he does get up — he’s  _there_. There’s pain in his eyes, an ache, understandable grieving, but he’s  _there_ , in the present, not drifting off into space and caught in the past.

( “Closure can hurt,” Daisy had said, at one point, gently. “He’ll be okay. Sometimes you gotta fall apart before you can piece yourself back up. Better, an’ stronger.” )

Daisy herself seems to be enjoying Sanctuary more than either of them would expect. She’s a natural businesswoman, loves to keep busy, and MacCready figures she sees something about here, about this town that  _used_  to be Sanctuary hills, and it feels like home in a way the rest of the wasteland hasn’t been in years.  _Centuries_ , for her. And with Adust here, maybe it’s for the best. MacCready sure as heck isn’t gonna say otherwise. She’s the most relaxed he’s seen her since he’s known her, and she helps Adust up on his feet, makes sure he doesn't wallow for longer than he should and that’s just gravy.

MacCready does his own share of trading, in the meantime — he’s leaving first thing tomorrow, before the sun comes up, to make his way back to the Capital. Back home. To see his boy, make sure his son is okay.

( Kellogg’s voice still rings in his head, still pulls his bones tight and cold.  _What does he mean? What did he mean?_ )

As it is, he’s on his knees on the living room floor of Adust’s old house, the guy gone out earlier with Daisy to get... something. The biggest challenge right now is just trying to cram everything he’s got into his one pack. MacCready needs a bigger one — for once, he’s got  _too much stuff_  to bring back with him, fat sacks of caps and water and food and. It’s a good problem to have, yeah, it’s  _great_ , but his pack is fit to bursting and he still needs to jam ammo in there  _somewhere_.

He’s halfway debating just dumping out a can of cram and just hunting for food out along the way when the door opens up. MacCready’s head snaps back immediately, regrets it right after when the whiplash burns his neck. Adust’s standing in the doorway, carrying some stuff wrapped in cloth, and two mugs of something steaming. MacCready hopes it’s something hot. The house is  _still_  pretty drafty and he’s pretty sure he lost feeling in his fingers fifteen minutes ago.

(Also — relief, in his system, seeing Adust up and around. Talking again. It'll be awhile before he'll be okay, but baby steps count.)

“You’re leaving tomorrow.” Adust says, softly, shutting the door behind him with his shoulder. Not a question, a statement, and MacCready nods and turns back to jamming his stuff into the pack.

“Leaving with the traders and heading down to Goodneighbour,” MacCready grunts, deciding to just jam it all in there and does his best to zip it up, “Then I’m meeting up with Daisy’s crew. Probably leaving before mid-morning.”

The zip gets stuck halfway through. MacCready throws his arms up in defeat. Adust manages to crook a small, half smile at it, and moves to sit on the couch. He looks tired, but at least he's present. MacCready joins him without being asked, scowling at his pack like its personally offended him.  _I trusted you_ , his mind says, glaring daggers into the overfull thing,  _friggin’ useless._

Adust nudges one of the mugs into his palms, and MacCready blinks, then takes it gratefully. Smells it, raises his brow when he recognizes the dark liquid sloshing inside.

“Oh  _man,_ coffee?” MacCready says, in wonder, looking down at it. Takes another deep whiff —  _god_ , yeah, it’s chicory coffee alright. Sweet and sour and dark and good. He hasn’t had this in, in — a while. “Where’d you — “

“The traders. Daisy managed to wrangle a couple of bags for a discount. Sturges wants them in the common house.” Adust explains, taking a sip out of his own mug, and then making a face that MacCready crooks a grin at. “It’s, sour — “

“‘s not like pre-war coffee, genius.” MacCready snorts, taking a swig of his own. Feels his bones relax just at the  _taste_  of it, and he settles into the broken-in sofa. “That stuff’s way too expensive, thousands of caps a bag.”

Adust huffs at that. “I figured. It’s not — it’s not bad.”

“Then drink up before it gets cold, or I’ll drink it for you.”

Adust just shakes his head, takes a second swig of it, and he actively tries to hide the face he makes this time. MacCready snorts, and sips at his own. Last time he’s had chicory coffee was... over a year ago, actually, with Daisy — a hard few months, troubled with no jobs, hounded by Gunners, no caps, running on tablescraps from the Third Rail to not starve. He’d been terrified that he couldn’t do it, couldn’t make it for Duncan, the loneliness and the tension pulling tight in his chest threatening to snap. 

It’d been a dark night — one of the darkest he’s ever had, doesn’t even want to remember the pain of it. Breaking down in an alleyway, sleep deprived and exhausted to the core, he’d been two drinks and a pack of cigarettes away from crashing into a ditch and leaving himself for dead when Daisy yanked him by the ear to calm down and have coffee with her, to tell him about her associate caravan that travels down to the Capital on the reg —

At this point, MacCready’s pretty sure he’d be willing to wrestle a deathclaw barefisted for Daisy.

The memory makes MacCready more grateful, though. For where he is now, after so long of just... Hoping, and praying for something to come along in the Third Rail. After drinking and smoking himself half blind, barely grabbing enough jobs to send caps back every month. Now he’s — better. Fed, and doesn’t have to want for caps anymore for himself. Can barely believe the differences between now and just a couple of months ago — but he didn’t know what to expect, anyway, when a gasmasked weirdo vaultie popped up in his VIP room and awkwardly asked for his help.

And now — now the guy’s sitting by him, drinking coffee. Cheeks gaunt, dark rings starting on pale skin under red-rimmed eyes. Adust looks  _exhausted_ , looks like he’s about to keel over any second and give in to the cold, but he’s also the most present MacCready’s seen him yet. Hurting, but at least he's _here_ , with MacCready. MacCready knows how it’s like. He does. He does.

“Hey,” MacCready says, after a stretch of quiet. Nudges Adust with his shoulder. Clears his throat, awkwardly. “How’re you holding up?”

Adust pauses his drink. Stares down at it for a second, before snorting a little and shaking his head. “I — no. I don’t — I’m not okay. Not yet.” Another pause. “... I don’t know.”

MacCready’ll take it. “You’ll be fine.” MacCready says. Hopes. “It gets — it hurts less. With time.”

Adust looks at him, there, eyes soft and... thankful. Cracks a small, small smile, and MacCready feels his cheeks warm at the look. “Thanks,” Adust says, quiet and gentle, and then, “And I’m sorry.”

The last part — MacCready blinks there, confused, before furrowing his brows. “Sorry? For what?”

“For,” Adust gestures here a little, with one hand, “All of this. Me. This... trainwreck.”

“Hey, thought we already talked about this — “

“ _And_  for Fort Hagen.”

MacCready opens his mouth to argue there, before closing it again, and then snorting. “Okay, yeah. Fair enough.”

“Thought so.” Adust half-smiles, before sheepishly looking away, leaning back further against the seats. “I mean it, though. I’m sorry, I am  — I was stressed out, I wasn’t thinking. Took it out on you, even though you were just trying to watch out for me. That was — it was unbelievably shitty of me, and for that, I’m sorry. I didn’t get to say it then.”

“Don’t worry, genius, I figured that out. We're good.” MacCready snorts, tipping his cap, good-naturedly, before nudging Adust’s side with an elbow. “Cut it out, stop looking like a kicked puppy. Apology accepted, alright? I get it. You’re uh, pardoned.”

“Thanks, your majesty.” Adust snorts, and MacCready snickers. Adust shakes his head. “And I’m not done yet.”

MacCready raises a brow, curious, as Adust takes both their coffee mugs and puts it down, beside their feet on the floor. Turns to his side and takes out the loose cloth bundle from earlier, the fabric mostly clean. And then — Adust just hands it to him, right into his lap, and MacCready stares at it for a second, confused.

“Uh?” MacCready says, smartly, and Adust crooks a half-smile. “What’s this for?”

“It’s for opening, _genius_.” Adust says, tilting his head, looking amused. “So open it.”

Well, MacCready doesn’t need to be told twice. He unfolds the cloth with quick fingers, stained and only a little torn, and his eyes widen when he notices what’s on the inside; a wristwatch, only slightly worn by wear and age, ticking away on his lap. A rolled up copy of  _Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor_ , relatively clean for wasteland standards, and what MacCready instantly recognizes as an  _incredibly_  rare publication.

“Oh, woah,” MacCready says, marvelled, picking up the watch, the magazine. “How did you — oh  _man_ , where did you — “

There’s a hint of a smile in Adust’s voice, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I — I didn’t really know what to get you, but i know you like reading comics all the time. And this one seemed funny, the trader said it’s rare, and your  _watch_  has been stuck at the same time for pretty much all the time I’ve known you, so, I figured — “

He isn’t wrong. MacCready hasn’t seen any  _Tales of a Junktown Jerky Vendor_  in... ages, not since he left the Capital wasteland, and he knows they’re incredibly rare to find, and ridiculously funny to read. Not a whole lot of reading material being made post-war, and he remembers reading the one copy they had in Little Lamplight, spreading rumours about the elusive, legendary jerky vendor that no one could ever find. MacCready flicks through the magazine, snorts with a little laughter at the title.  _The Joy of Wealth_. Of course he’d pick that one, smartass.

There’s still more in the cloth though, and when MacCready opens the rest up, his eyes grow wide.

“Oh, woah, is this — “

“Only one I could find.” Adust says, apologetically, “I know, it’s no Grognak, but I figured— it’s better than nothing?”

It’s better than nothing. It’s  _definitely_  better than nothing. MacCready picks it up — an action figure, it’s  _Manta Man_ , and he’s. He’s a little thrilled by the whole thing, yeah. It’s in ridiculously good condition, besides some scuffs and the usual wasteland wear and tear, but the arms and legs are movable and when MacCready presses a button on manta man’s chest, it makes a funny noise that makes a thrill of childish joy go right to MacCready’s chest. It’s the coolest thing MacCready’s seen in a long, long time that isn’t some kind of weapon, and he already knows someone who’d love it.

“Yeah, ah. The voice box is a little damaged. Sorry.” Adust apologizes, before nudging his side. “That one’s supposed to be for Duncan, by the way. Unless you  _really_  want it.”

“Yeah, I figured that out, smartass.” MacCready fires back, even though his cheeks redden because  _yeah_ , duh, of course he’d have loved one for himself. If he could go back in time and give it to his younger self, he’s pretty sure he’d freak out a little. Manta-Man wasn’t the best Unstoppable, but he was  _still_  a friggin’ Unstoppable.

“Glad you like it.” Adust says, and when MacCready looks over, the guy has his head leaned on its side on the sofa back, smiling soft at MacCready in a genuine sort of happy, even though it’s muted under everything that’s happened. Another shot of  _something_  goes to MacCready’s chest, a twinge of pleasure, and MacCready doesn’t think too hard about it.  _Good to see he can still smile_. “I hope Duncan likes it too.”

“He’ll love it. Manta Man here probably won’t have arms next time you see him.” MacCready snorts, putting the things back into the cloth bundle and wrapping it back up. Fitting this into his already overfull pack will be heck and a half, but he’ll deal with it when the time comes. But realization comes faster than that, and he pauses for a second, before turning back to look at Adust again. “Why are you giving all this to me, anyway?”

Adust blinks, straightens. “Oh. Uh. Well, Christmas is in a couple of days. You’re heading off, and I— I figured I might give you something before you went. Presents.”

A twinge of guilt immediately makes MacCready frown, looking down, feeling a little bad over it all. He’s never really taken the holidays seriously, and now. “You didn’t have to, I didn’t get anything for you — “

Adust shakes his head. “You don’t have to, don’t worry about it. It’s just — I wanted to. As a thank you, too. And we’re friends. I’m allowed to do something like this for you. You've already done more than your fair share for me.”

 _Way too nice_ , MacCready thinks, looking down at the folded bundle in his lap. A holiday gift. Looking at it makes him come to the abrupt realization that he’s never actually  _gotten_  one in years, not since he left Little Lamplight, not since before Duncan, even. He and Lucy were always too busy surviving to care about celebrating some shiny pre-war holiday. Getting presents, getting gifts at all — he’s forgotten how it felt like.

( The last truly meaningful thing he’s ever received is the wooden toy soldier, burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t even deserve that one. He  _lied_ for that one. The thought makes his chest hurt. )

“You really don’t gotta keep thanking me for everything, y’know.” MacCready finally says, fingers fidgeting with the cloth. “You don’t  _owe_  me anything.”

“You have no idea how much I do. And Iwanted to, anyway.” Adust fires back. Eyes going soft. “You’re a good person, Mac. You deserve nice things.”

There it is again. He doesn’t — he can’t figure out  _why_  Daisy and Adust have been telling him that, but all he knows is that it just makes him feel worse. He’s not a good person. He  _knows_  he’s not a good person, has accepted it into a part of himself, had no choice to after he sold his soul for a part in the Gunners. He’s been able to ignore it because he knows it, manages to tamp down all the bad memories and focus on Duncan, on his next mission, on finding the caps to make it to the next mealtime. Shrugging the worst of it off while running away from his demons.

But telling him like this just makes something within him viciously recoil, because if he tries to accept the idea that he’s  _good_  just makes his mind fight back with everything wrong he’s ever done. His list is miles and miles long. Could wrap around the whole Commonwealth twice over. Makes him relive all the blood spilt in his hands, makes him remember he’s a monster. He does better when he accepts and ignores it. He's cocky about his skills and likes pretending like he's all that, but he knows he's not. He can't be. It’s better that way. He knows who he is — he’s not gonna pretend he’s any better than the monsters they’d killed on the Mass Exchange.

“I’m not. I — I don’t.” MacCready says, gruff. Pulls his hat down closer over his eyes and doesn’t meet Adust’s. “Thanks for thinking so, but — “

“Daisy talks about you. A lot.” Adust interrupts, but not really, because his tone is so gentle MacCready can’t help but keep quiet in spite of it. When MacCready turns to look without thinking, Adust isn’t even looking at him. Just at the floor, fingers rubbing his own wrist. “How you two met. Everything you’ve done. For her. For Goodneighbour. For Duncan.”

MacCready swallows, harsh, and turns away a second time. Ignores the burning starting to crawl up his throat. “I know. I kill. We know this. That’s — that’s how we  _met_.”

“We all do what we have to do to survive. There's a difference, between killing for fun and because you have to. You — I hope you know. The difference.” Adust says, and MacCready wonders, for a second, if the guy’s talking to him or to himself. “Daisy tells me how much you push yourself. You work so hard and then —  _blame_  yourself for the work you do. And she tells me — she tells me, all the time, how proud she is of you.”

The burning moves, up his throat and behind his eyes now, and MacCready’s jaw clenches. God, that’s  _pathetic_ , over something like this, it’s not even, it can’t even be true — and then a hand comes up. Touches his shoulder, lightly. MacCready glances to the side, meets Adust’s dark eyes, and suddenly it’s hard to swallow, and he has to clear his throat, suddenly sticky.

“Bad people don't help strangers find wedding rings. Bad people don’t help random vaulties just because, don’t stick around to bury someone else’s wife even though it's got to be uncomfortable. Bad people don’t work themselves to — to broken  _spirits_ , against their own morals, to the bone, just to save their kid.” Adust murmurs. The look in his eyes is so — it’s so  _tender_ , and MacCready feels something burning in his heart. “I know that — I know things are still rough, with Duncan, I won’t push to know anything, but. Everything you’ve done? All the good you’ve given? You’re a good person, Mac. You always have been to me. You’re one of the best people I know — and I've been around for a long time.”

MacCready can’t keep looking. Breathes harshly out his nose and wipes his eyes with the back of his forearm, doesn’t know how to feel when it comes back damp and he has to blink back more moisture. Doesn’t know how to feel about any of it  — shame, a little, at crying over something like this. Guilt, because he knows Adust doesn’t know just what kind of, of —what kind of  _crap_  he’s had to do, just to keep himself and Duncan alive come morning, and he doesn’t deserve any of this and life is just easier if he puts as low of an expectation on himself as possible. Adust says all this but he has no idea.  _No_ idea what MacCready's had to resort to.

( Beyond all that though, he feels his stomach turn in a betraying, traitorous kind of  _hope_. A kind of inner, desperate need for Adust to be  _right_. Needs to know, somewhere, somehow, that he’s still worthy of absolution. )

A stretch of silent goes by, MacCready too busy blinking back the tears burning in the back of his eyes to try and reply — not that he even knows what to  _say_  — until Adust murmurs, apologetically, “I’m sorry, if I. If I overstepped.”

 _No, stop it, you’re too nice,_  MacCready’s head crows, and MacCready just wipes at his eyes again, hates that they come away damp still. “It’s — it’s fine.” His voice warbles and cracks, on the last note, and he has to swallow before he talks again, forcing half a smile. “Pretty sure this is bullying. This is s’posed to be the other way ‘round, jerkwad.”

Adust cracks a smile there, almost  _mischievous_ , and again MacCready can see it. The hint of the person Adust is, beyond the grief that’s clouding him. “Well, you know what they say. Misery loves company.”

Adust gets a playful elbow in the side as a result, and he laughs, breathy and soft but it’s enough for MacCready to swallow down the worst of the moisture in his eyes, snort and snicker right back.

( _God, we’re a mess,_  his mind wanders. Thinks to Lucy, in the back of his mind, and — Jennifer, too.  _If you two could see us now. We’re friggin’ awful at this_. )

“Ass,” MacCready says, shaking his head, “Making me really reconsider coming back.”

Adust half-laughs for a moment, before the weight of the couch dips a little, and MacCready finds the familiar press of their shoulders against each other. Doesn’t know what it means, when he finds himself relaxing over it.

There’s a beat or two of quiet, before Adust murmurs, “ _Are_  you coming back?”

MacCready blinks. “What?”

“From DC. Are you —  are you coming back here, or are you staying there with your son?” Adust asks, clarifies. Looks at MacCready with questioning eyes. “I’m not  _asking_ or _forcing_  you to come back, I mean — I just. I’d like to know.”

MacCready pauses there, for a moment, before nodding. Not too long ago, he’d thought of staying in the Capital, after all this — with enough caps earned working with Adust to pay for Duncan’s care for months, but. In the end, he still doesn’t know if Duncan will be  _better_  by the end of it, knows that right now the Commonwealth is the best place to grab his caps and then the whole. Kellogg threat, the fact that Kellogg  _knew_ , and knowing that Kellogg somehow knew about his family, that MacCready is miles and miles away — it’d made MacCready’s decision before he could even really debate it.

“Yeah,” MacCready says, slowly. “Thought about it, and — I was thinking of. I was thinking, maybe, I’d move down with Duncan here.”

He hears a soft inhale here, and when his eyes flicker to the side he sees Adust  _looking_  at him, and MacCready feels his cheeks flush again at the attention.

“Really?” Adust asks. “I thought — I thought you had a home there.”

“Sort of. But — the air’s better here, no Brotherhood of Steel ordering people around, got plenty of caps here, and it’s — he was supposed to live here anyway, couple of years back, but then he got sick, so.” MacCready shrugs. “I still have to keep working. Until he gets better. And then I’m thinking of setting up a place, here, for him to move to, once he’s okay again.”

“Sanctuary’s a good place to raise a family.” Adust says, echoing back MacCready’s own words from what feels like  _weeks_  ago instead of just a couple of days. The smile that blooms on Adust’s face is so  _tender,_ here, so soft and approving that MacCready feels something in his chest go abruptly warm, breaking over his ribs and spreading down the cracks. Feels Adust nudging his shoulder, a little. “If you ever need anything. Just ask.”

MacCready snorts, tries to wave it off, “Yeah yeah, I g — “

“I’m not kidding, Mac.” Adust says a second time, and his tone is serious enough that MacCready’s words die on his tongue before the rest can reach his lips, staring at Adust who’s looking at him right back. “It’s — it’s you and me.”

“I,” MacCready fumbles. Suddenly hates everything coming out of his mouth, and especially hates how it’s starting to warble. “Uh.”

“You — you’re always telling me. That I’ve got you in my corner. I need you to know — I  _hope_  you know that I’ve got your back too. I care about you. Want you to be okay, to be good. If you ever need anything, just ask. Anytime.” Adust says, such sincerity in his tone that MacCready’s heart constricts. Eyes so gentle but genuine that MacCready doesn’t know what to say. “We’re — we’re partners. You’re not alone. I’ve got you. I promise.”

The burning is back, and MacCready squeezes his eyes shut, looking away before it starts again, willing it back down. Tries not to think about how long, how  _long_  it’s been since someone’s talked to him like that —  tries not to think how long it’s been since he’s felt like  _this_. Spent so long alone, with only letters to whatever’s left of his family back in the Capital, with his son dying, with everyone looking to kill him or stab him in the back, the loneliness threatening to snap at his heart and tear him from the inside out — 

But he’s got them, now. Daisy at his back, and Adust at his side.

“Yeah, I got it.” MacCready finally manages, dismisses the wetness of his own voice. Takes a few shaky breaths. “I — thanks.”

“Thank  _you_.” Adust says, nudging him one last time. “I mean it. At least I’m not the only one crying this time, right? Bonding?”

He gets an elbow in the side for his efforts, and MacCready feels — weirdly —  _lighter_. He replaces his wristwatch with the new one, and then cracks open the magazine, Adust over his shoulder, snickering at the weird drawings together.

By the time they get to their coffee, it’s cold, but they really can’t find it in themselves to care.

 

* * *

 

 

( By the time Adust wakes the next day, in the afternoon, MacCready is already long gone. The trader’s had left before dawn, and brought the mercenary with them. No trace of him behind, his pack and things all gone and on the road to the Capital wasteland, the only remnant of his presence being an empty coffee mug sitting by the couch —

And two boxes of preserved snack cakes, with a single bottle of wine by Adust’s bedside, that Adust feels something warm break and spread in his chest as soon as he sees it. There’s no note there indicating who left it, but he doesn’t need one. He already knows.

He goes back to sleep, and the new year dawns over the horizon. )

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY HOLIDAYS i finally crawl out of my hole and update this. it's not dead yet i promise !!!
> 
> thank you to everyone who's read this fic so far, esp those who're still reading this even after the long hiatus (i'm sorry abt that btw, brainweirds and studies got to me first). this chapter may be different from the others if only bc it's been so long since i updated, and i have a better grasp on plot coherency now. as a result this whole fic may seem like a mess but tbh it is, and i'm grateful if u like it anyway sdjfsk at this point my main goal is finishing it > getting every detail right, so pardon any messes or inconsistencies that will inevitably happen in this, yep
> 
> this chapter marks the end of the first of five arcs i have planned for this fic, so i'm glad i managed to finish this much before the year's through. plot will probably move faster from here on out, i hope those who've hopped on for the ride will stick around and enjoy it ! every kudos and comment encourages me n warms me heart
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/), come say hi! also: [bonus self indulgent adust/mac pics](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/168927571526/cause-all-i-ever-wanted-was-a-single-dream-come), not relevant to current syr happenings but still #relevant
> 
> if you want more healing and enjoy Danse/M!SoSu, consider reading the [temporar mutantur](https://archiveofourown.org/series/389566) series and giving it some love!
> 
> EDIT: 23 /6/2018, largescale editing for chapter 1 - 10 for things to be more coherent.


	11. and the world spins madly on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adust appreciates good music, and MacCready is bad at making friends in tin cans.

In the hollow of the steel tomb ice begins to unfurl in the corners of his vision. Like fractals on glass, looking as if through a window at her eyes, fear and stubbornness in equal measure. Soft hands grip harsh at the blue space blanket as disembodied voices echo through the desolate metal glen, a world of men and man's design, _a place where God's light would not shine, a hell of steel beneath the brine_  — a gun lifts. A baby cries.

A trigger is squeezed, and Adust wakes up.

The new year’s found Sanctuary in good health, or at least as good as any new settlement would allow in the winter. No snow — a good thing, considering the amount of holes in their roofs — but the ground is frozen solid. They’ve had to ration their food and overall resources, and they’ve had to gather everyone to sleep together in the common house over the winter because it’s the only one with working heating, but otherwise? There are worse things to deal with in the wasteland than a season-long slumber party and stale crackers for breakfast.

There are pros and cons to everyone sleeping together in one house. They don’t have to worry about heating for each individual house, for one, and they don’t need to worry about threats or hostiles picking them off individually while they sleep. Makes keeping watch easy, in any case. Especially so when there’s not all too many of them — barely ten settlers in this entire settlement including Dogmeat and Codsworth, but it’s a good fit. More will arrive, come spring.

The cons, though, include that when Adust jars from his nightmare, gasping and choking on a sob he doesn’t remember making, it usually means the seven other people in the room can hear him too. A problem, especially since the nightmares don’t discriminate on the hour they wake him at, and for a second now he jolts up to sit, trying to shake the phantom ice under his fingernails and the fear from his heart as he takes in his surroundings, remembers where he is, is scared that he’s woken everyone for the umpteenth time in the dead of night —

“Easy, sugar,” a familiar rasp comes from beside him, a warm hand on his trembling arm, “You’re safe, you’re safe, it’s just us two. Breathe.”

He’s still crying, he’s aware, tears running down to his chin and leaving cooling tracks in their wake, but the voice in his ear is so immensely familiar that he does what it says immediately, doesn’t even think twice about it. Tries to slow his gasping breaths into something more stable, and he absorbs his surroundings better. One of the bedrooms in the common house. On his mattress. It’s daytime — the murky window lets in streaks of sunlight, and he hears Dogmeat barking somewhere outside.

The other mattresses are empty, in different states of made. It’s just him, and the ghoul beside him, familiar and warm. (He will never be grateful enough.)

Daisy smiles, reassuring and empathetic, already dressed for the day, brown wig leaving dark strands over her ears. “It’s almost noon. Was about time I woke you up.”

Adust nods. Swallows, harsh, as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I — thank. Thank you.”

( It’s been a month since the faceoff with Kellogg happened, a couple months in total since he first crawled out of the vault, and he  _still_  dreams about her, almost every night.

Not always in the same fashion. The dreams change in minor details — setting, characters. At one point they were in their family home before the bombs, Adust cooking breakfast while Jennifer sat at the kitchen table with Shaun in one arm, when Kellogg barged in with the weapon. In another dream, it was the Vault-Tec doctor who guided them to their pods, making them change into their vault suits before Adust turns around to see the gun already lifted, barrel aimed. Other times, it’s Adust who’s in Jennifer’s place, himself alone and her in the other pod, slamming her palms against the cold glass with Shaun in her arm, wails muffled by the stainless steel until abruptly silenced by the gunshot to Adust’s head.

Those dreams are the good ones, usually. Up until he wakes up anyway, and realizes that it’s not real, and that he was the one to survive while they died. )

Daisy’s patient and calm without ever being patronizing by her presence. Stands idly by, looking out the window while he gets dressed, lighting a crooked stale cigarette and blowing smoke out the window’s cracks. He shrugs on a few layers, wipes gunk from his eyes and dried spit from the edges of his mouth and tries not give in to the urge to slump back to the ground. Count floor tiles. Cry some more, because it’s been months and it still hurts.

He resists, though, which means today is a good day. Maybe not a good day by anyone else’s definition. But a good day all the same, because there are a lot of days where he wakes up already exhausted and can’t fight the weight in his chest that keeps him on the mattress from dawn to dusk. Too many days still, where the burden of living and missing feels overwhelming, threatens to swallow him whole. There are days still, even now, where the 10mm he keeps in his pack seems to beckon him, begs for him to find some sort of rest, some sort of peace.

There’s still moments where he blanks out, times where he feels like he’s being weighted, where existing feels like a burden too heavy to bear. Where drowning feels easier than breathing, where Jennifer’s voice echoes in the place where his heart should be and he remembers the feel of Shaun’s little feet in his hands, far too small, too fragile. Gone, now. Gone forever.

But those moments fade faster, these days, and don’t hurt quite as long. Some days are harder than others, but the easier days are coming more often. Days where he finds the energy to at least stand and walk outside, maybe eat a little, maybe sit out on the porch and feel the cold nip at his bones as it keeps him in the present. Lets him know he’s alive, and that it’s okay that he is.

He’s been mourning. Has been in mourning for a long while now — but without the invisible hold of time ticking away at him, like numbers counting down on a clock, pushing at him to find his son and redeem himself to Jennifer — he doesn’t feel the pressure anymore. Finds it easier to let the pain come, and then wash over him and away. No inherent need to keep moving until he drops, to find something that can’t be found. He’s reached the finish line and saw what’s at the end. He doesn’t have to force himself to push things back anymore, into a mental vault fit to bursting, doesn’t have to repress everything down until it overflows.

Now, there’s at least some closure. At least he  _knows_ , definite, instead of questioning and anxious, always. Now he just... Lets the grieving run its course. Lets it come over him and wash away like ocean waves. Allows himself the time and the kindness to lick his wounds and recover, however long that’ll take. If he ever will at all. (He hopes to god it will.)

It helps that everyone is kind to him. Considerate, and mostly gentle, and Sanctuary largely quiet and peaceful. Helping him. Helping  _themselves_. All of them considerate, and helping each other, in their own way however small. All of them, having lost something precious. Working together as a community to hold on through the winter. Healing isn’t pretty, or graceful, or kind. Some days are harder than the rest, and some easier. It seems like everyone in Sanctuary is going through a stage of grief — except for Dogmeat, who’s happy to bark wild and run after a stick Codsworth’s thrown to get him off the Mr Handy’s back, and Sturges, who seems genuinely happy to just be alive.

Preston still doesn’t sleep well, spends more nights than not taking up patrol because the image of Quincy still smokes behind his eyelids. Jun and Marcy have put up a small metal sheet by a tree behind a house, engraved with the name  _Kyle Long_. Mama Murphy’s arms, pockmarked with needle scars, eyes still hazy and glazed with jet some days. Even Daisy — who may have lost the most out of all of them, who’s had to lose everyone and the world she loved and then live through it — still idly rubs the spot on her left ring finger, where her wedding band used to be.

All grieving. All healing. They’ll hold each other through it.

Speaking of.   

“Where is everyone?” Adust asks, once he’s dressed, “Are — is everyone alright?”

Daisy nods, hums, extinguishing her cigarette on the window sill and throwing it out before she walks, nudges him out of the room and towards the kitchen. “Preston’s trying to fix the radio, the Longs are fetching more water to boil for bathing, Sturges is out tryin’ to find scrap to patch our walls with, Dogmeat’s chasin’ Codsworth like no one’s business, Mama Murphy’s taking her usual walk ‘round Sanctuary, and _I_  am tryin’ to get you fed before Sturges takes whatever’s left from breakfast.”

Adust manages a smile at that, a twitch of a thing. It counts — Daisy smiles right back, and baps him hard enough on the back that he goes  _oof_  as he takes a seat on the only chair they have on their ‘dining table’. There’s not much actual breakfast — just cold razorgrain loaf bought off a trader three days ago that’s about as hard as concrete, and mutfruit jam that Sturges seems intent on inhaling by himself assuming no one stops him.

Can’t blame the guy. Adust is new to the wasteland still, still doesn’t know all the names of all the new plants that grow, but he loves mutfruit. Loves the lingering, aromatic sweetness that lies beyond the tartness, loves the way it stains his mouth and teeth purple. It does wonders for the wasteland winter, where trading and spices and food is scarce and everything is tasteless. Does wonders for  _him_ , gives him something at least palatable when everything tastes like sandpaper.

He takes a thick slice of bread, slathers the last bit of mutfruit jam on it before licking the flats of the knife clean with his tongue. Daisy  _tsks_  at his side, motherly as always, and he takes comfort where he can from it.

( Jennifer would’ve loved this. Would’ve adored it’s taste, always a fan of sour candy. Would’ve adored to be here — having terrible breakfast with two of her favourite people in her life. Maybe little Shaun, bouncing on her knee.

If his eyes dampen a bit while eating bread that almost chips his teeth, Daisy says nothing of it. )

He eats slow, methodically. There’s no shortage of things to do in Sanctuary, honestly, but neither is there any rush. The days pass slow come winter despite the weakened daylight, and everyone paces themselves, keeping warm and saving energy while on their rations. Even Daisy seems to be in no hurry beside him — lighting yet another cigarette, content to look outside and watch the days pass by, no urge to do much of anything or push for him to anything at all beyond get up and eat.

Idly, Adust wonders how MacCready is doing.

He should’ve reached the Capital wasteland a couple of weeks ago, by Daisy’s count, give or take given the weather conditions and whether the brahmin hold up. Adust wonders if MacCready got back in time for the new years. Wonders how Duncan is doing, whether Duncan likes the gifts MacCready brought back for his son. The gifts Adust had gotten for them.

( Adust wonders also, for a moment, how Duncan looks like. Whether he has his father’s ash blond hair, or his cheekbones, or his square jawline, or piercing blue eyes or cat-lipped smile. Wonders how much of his mother is in there too, the unknown wife of MacCready that hasn’t been given a name yet. He wonders if she’s beautiful. How long they’ve been together — how long they’ve been a family.

An ache settles like a worn bruise in his chest, and he exhales slow.

Family. At least one of them has the chance to keep theirs. It’s only fair. )

He — he  _misses_  MacCready. It’s a realization that’d struck him a little abruptly the morning MacCready had left, but it’s not one all too surprising. 

Adust hasn’t realized just how big of a presence MacCready was until he’d gone. Sticking around each other, dawn to dusk and everywhere in between, attached at the hip, for weeks and weeks and weeks — Adust never realized how used he’d gotten to MacCready’s presence until MacCready’d left. He misses the stupid jokes, misses the wisecracks and the dumb puns. Misses the scowls and the heart on those sleeves and that cocky grin, that genuine laugh. Misses his partner.

He doesn’t know when the shift was. Can’t pinpoint it. That turning point, from wary strangers to reluctant teammates to friends. Doesn’t know exactly when they’d started caring about each other’s wellbeing more than what was given in their spoken contract, doesn’t know when MacCready became something... Different, compared to the rest of Sanctuary. To everyone he’s met so far. Probably somewhere between all the shooting and sleeping and eating and nearly dying together. Probably somewhere between defeating MacCready’s gunner demons and painting Fort Hagen with Kellogg’s grey matter.

He’s stopped analyzing it by now. Doesn’t need to study the timeline. He just... hopes that MacCready and his family are alright. Wherever they are. Hopes that they’re safe.

Adust wishes the best to MacCready, in everything Adust’s failed to be.

He finishes his bread, sometime between the last thought and the next, shifting his attention to the breadcrumbs he’s gathered on the calloused pads of his fingers instead of the darker tones of his mind beckoning. He feels tired all over again, but he summons the energy to dust his fingers of the crumbs. Then the energy to wipe the crumbs off the worn blue tabletop. Then the energy to place the knife back on the empty jar.

One thing after another. One step. Bit by bit.

He doesn’t realize Daisy’s halfway dozing in the chair beside him until Preston comes knocking on the door and she jolts with a graceful  _jimminy fuck!_  And makes Preston laugh apologetically.

“Sorry, sorry — you okay?” Preston says, looking warm in the scarf Mama Murphy bought for him for Christmas, “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

Daisy huffs. Extinguishes her cigarette that’d nearly burnt to the filter in the time she’d been nodding off. “Gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, Garvey.”

Preston grins, and turns to Adust and smiles a little wider.  _Relieved_ , probably, that Adust isn’t back in bed, or slumped on the couch. Adust would feel offended at the pity, maybe, if he didn’t feel the same relief back at how Preston looks. A couple of months ago, and it was Preston in Adust’s place. Mourning an entire town and a cause that betrayed him. Even these days, there are mornings Preston walks around dead-eyed, world-weary.

Nowadays he still looks tired — his insistence on taking night patrols obvious for anyone to see — but he smiles more. Loves the new purpose, the new people he’s found himself in, the hope. Adust can appreciate that. Respects it.

“Glad to see you up and about, Ads. Was actually gonna ask you for some help. Both of you.” Preston tips his hat. Walks fully into the kitchen. “We’ve got new settlers coming in. Three of ‘em, actually — or three and a half.”

Adust frowns. “Three and a half?”

Preston only grins wider. “You’ll see. Daisy, if you’re not busy, could I leave it to you to show ‘em around? Bring ‘em some food, spare ‘em some mattresses?”

Daisy raises a wannabe brow, but a smile plays on her lips before she can pretend otherwise. Shakes her head and sighs, gets up to leave. “As if anyone could say no to you, sugar.”

Preston laughs, brighter than the sun as Daisy half-heartedly waves and leaves the house. “Wonderful — they’re coming through the bridge as we speak, so if you don’t mind — thank you. Adust?”

He straightens at this name. “Yeah?”

“Trudy’s asking if we could bring them some medical supplies. Apparently her boy Patrick had a slip ‘n fall and broke his leg, and the traders have been slow on the routes since the roads are frozen. They don’t have any stims, and since we’re closest, I figured we could help.” Preston explains. “They’re willing to trade off some food for a couple of those and some med-x. D’you mind comin’ with? If we run into any radstags, I could use those sharpshooting skills of yours to feed us a couple of days.”

Adust  _could_  say no. If he wanted. Preston is — he’s a good man, a really good man, and selfless to a fault, would just as easily go on his own than force Adust to follow. Adust could say  _it’s too cold out_  or  _I’m tired_  or just shake his head and Preston would nod, and leave, either on his own or with maybe Codsworth or Dogmeat in tow, because the wasteland doesn’t stop being relentless even in the dead of winter and people still need things and Preston is worse at saying no than Adust is. It wouldn’t be the first time Adust has rejected offers to go outside, too clouded with mourning to step out of bed.

But today is good. Today is kind, so Adust nods  _yes_  and watches Preston’s face brighten up like the morning sun. This isn’t the first time Adust has pitched his help with Minutemen work over the winter, or even this week — but Preston reacts the same way each time. It warms Adust some. Wonders if it’s why so many more settlements are starting to fly the Minutemen flag now — both for the benefits, and their saint of a general.

“Great! I’m gonna run over to Sturges and get the supplies. Meet you at the bridge in ten, alright? Pack light, we should be back in a couple hours tops.” Preston grins, before slipping back out.

And Adust is alone again. For a moment, the temptation slides back, in the place where Daisy and Preston were — asking,  _beckoning_ , for him to just crawl back to bed and sleep. He’s not  _bad_ , today, but he’s... tired. He always is, most days.

But outside he begins to hear the soft sound of whistling. Sees Preston strolling on, happily marching to where the settlement’s handyman is hammering a piece of aluminium to a wall. Sees Dogmeat happily trotting besides Marcy long, who has got an armful of twigs to use for the fire later. Jun and Codsworth, talking. Daisy playing tour guide in the barest sense of the word and welcoming the new settlers; two women bright and beaming, one with olive skin and an easy grin and one with a loud laugh and hair like straw and a belly big and round, trailing a man with red hair and sunglasses who’s answering Daisy back enthusiastically.

Adust could go back to sleep. Could shut his eyes and plug his ears and pray Jennifer’s screams don’t reach him again in his nightmares. He  _could_. 

But the world is spinning. Moves on, with or without him. And he figures that it’s about time he starts moving on with it.

(By the time Sturges comes back, the mutfruit jam is all but gone.)

 

* * *

 

 

He finds her holotapes a week after that.

Or rather, it’s Codsworth who finds it. Adust himself had just come back to Sanctuary after going out hunting with Preston — two radstags shot just outside, not much fat on the bones but enough to feed everyone for the next two weeks, assuming they tighten the notches on their belt a little. Preston had been delighted to have him out and about and helping. And Adust is — admittedly grateful to have a reason to go. Grateful to have someone at his side again, experiencing the cold, reminding himself that he’s alive whether he likes it or not. And shooting is a perishable skill, after all. 

Preston’s gone to skin the radstags with the help of Sturges and one of the new settlers — Deckard, Adust remembers, who’d seemed taken with Sturges from the get-go — while Adust walks back into the common house, ready to shake the cold from his bones and hang up his rifle. Just about to do so, when he hears the familiar  _whir_ behind him, and the awkward clearing of a throat that doesn’t really exist.

“Ah, sir?” Codsworth’s voice crops up behind him, his nervousness so authentic Adust finds himself wondering just how much of Codsworth is programmed over the years and how much is  _learnt_ , “I hope you had a good hunt with master Garvey? I saw the two of you head out this morning, and dare I say that the two shots I heard seem rather promising, I — ”

“Two radstags. Should be enough for the week or so, I think.” Adust answers, raising a brow. “Codsworth, do you need something?”

All three of Codsworth’s eyestalks seem to jump up, and Adust feels a murmur of amusement in his chest. “Well...”

“You can tell me, Codsworth. Promise I’m listening.” Adust reassures, voice gentle, head tilting. “Is Dogmeat bothering you again? It’s alright, you know — I can bring him in with me.”

“Ah, not quite, sir,” Codsworth tries again, sounding nervous still. “It’s a more delicate matter, I’m afraid.”

Adust frowns. “Delicate? Codsworth, what — “

“It has to do with mum, sir.”

Adust’s mind blanks.

( They’d put up her marker two days ago, now. Nothing fancy, nothing special — they can’t afford engraved headstones like they did when the world didn’t have radiation in everything they touched, but. They make do anyway.

Scrap metal, hammered out smooth, cut into a fine rectangle, all courtesy of Sanctuary’s resident handyman. Her birthyear engraved into the cooled steel, the year of her passing left with 22XX because they don’t know for sure, and they may never will.  _Jennifer Darling_  is carved in just above that, in larger font, 美惠 just above that. The edges of the engraving not quite as smooth as the others, because Adust had carved it himself, because Sturges is good at many things but writing in this is not.

They’d hammered it into where they’d laid her to rest, just a month and some change ago, Preston with the hammer and Adust with tears in his eyes and Daisy’s breath stuttered and saddened beside him. He’d taken his ring off — their wedding band, shining silver, they’d picked it out together — and let Sturges weld it to the steel, right beneath the years. Her own ring, he keeps in his pocket. He doesn’t miss the significance of his bare left hand.

Shaun came after. Smaller piece of metal, engraved all the same.  _Shaun Parker Darling._ 志成 also, like they’d agreed on before. No body to bury, but a strip of blue space blanket and a charm off the broken mobile, tied around the steel.

Side by side. Mother and son. His best friend and his child. He’d stood in front of their graves, their markers, for an hour. Wondered where they were. If they were happy. If they forgave him.

And then he turned away, and walked back to the warmth of Sanctuary. )

“Sir?” Codsworth calls, jolts him out of his contemplation, sounding more and more stressed for a Mr Handy. “I apologize if I stepped out of line, but I found something that I believe you’d like to see.”

Adust swallows, throat dry. Nods. “Lead me.”

Codsworth does. All the way back to the house.  _Their_  house — himself and Jennifer, and Shaun, when the world was still breathing with collapsing lungs — the one kept locked since he’d had the good sense to leave and move into the common house for the winter. Adust finds it both surprisingly and unsurprisingly unlocked, and when Codsworth pushes the door open with eyestalks ducked down, he wonders if mr handies have been programmed to feel guilt or if this, too, is learnt.

Walking in here still hurts. Still jars him, the abrupt loss in his chest so swooping and hollow that it hurts to breathe just being back. He keeps walking, though, keeps his eyes on Codsworth’s abraxo-shined back as the robot hovers down to the old bedroom. Everything is the same as it’d been the last time Adust had come in here, minus the bedframe, which Sturges had asked kindly for permission to take apart and use for firewood because of its rotting insides and the damp trees post-storm outside making it hard to find dry wood for the night.

The walls are bare and coming apart now, the windows glassless and letting the frigid air in, making Adust shiver in both cold and the dull ache of sadness — at least until Codsworth hovers over to a box lying near the bedside dresser. Adust doesn’t remember if it was there the last time, though it’s as old and weary as everything else in the house.

“After mum and master Shaun were put to rest, I… I suppose I. I felt like floating through this old house again.” Codsworth starts, shame in his fabricated tones, clear guilt in disobeying the rules, though to be fair Adust hadn’t banned anyone from going in outright.  _He misses them_ , Adust realizes, and then feels amazingly stupid for realizing the obvious.

“I swear, sir, I had no intention of making a mess or digging around, I assure you — but I found this box upturned earlier, possibly from last night’s wind, and,” Codsworth continues sadly, “I believe you should take a look.”

The box doesn’t seem to be anything special at first glance. Just papers from before, documents, probably Jennifer’s old studies, in writing stained and yellowed beyond comprehension after two hundred years. When he kneels to look through them, he tries to ignore the dull ache in his chest over the remnants of the loops of her handwriting. And then he stops ignoring it, and lets it go through him. And pass.

But there  _is_  something, under all that. A glint of orange under the stack of paper, makes Adust frown and his brows raise. He starts taking out the documents and putting them aside, until the unknown makes itself known.

His eyes widen. His chest aches, abruptly, and enough to punch out his breath.

Holotapes.  _Jennifer’s_  holotapes.

A dozen or two of them, lying at the bottom. A little beaten and battered with time, but tucked so safely under the papers that they’ve suffered the least out of anything in this house. He doesn’t remember them, but he recognizes her handwriting anywhere, written in marker at the sides. All of them, with words written on the sides, dates — names of songs.

It’s as if time’s stopped. Adust doesn’t know if the world around him’s paused with this, but he doesn’t care. Time’s frozen, with this, as he drops his weight to sit on the floor. Thumbs the holotape with reverence, and disbelief, and swallows the burning in his throat as he picks one at random, clicks it into his pip-boy. Lets it start to play.

It’s her voice. It’s  _her_. He can’t drown out the choked, surprised sob that escapes from his throat when the piano starts, when he hears her awkward cough before she does, when he hears her  _voice_.

( She always did love playing music. Nothing classical — she found Mozart and Beethoven to be snoozefests, detested the piano lessons her mother insisted on as a kid and took the liberty to gather sheet music of every other song she could. Music from cartoons, showtunes. Jazzy swingsets and the blues, soundtracks from movies and cinema. Anything, really, that tickled her fancy.

And she’d sing. All the time, whenever she could, whenever she wasn’t busy with work, especially when she was pregnant with Shaun. They never did buy the grand piano she’d been eyeing — they never really had the room — but they had one of those wall pianos for a short time, a housewarming gift from her parents when they’d moved into Sanctuary, and she’d plink away at the keys in her free time, sing her heart out, her voice limited in range but infinite in heart.

He remembers her trying to record herself a few times. For Shaun, he remembers, for future listening. But she’d always get embarrassed by the end, and he’d always assumed she threw them away, or erased the holotapes to be used for other things. Especially after their piano finally broke down, and they were too busy with the baby to get it repaired.

Now he knows. Now he knows, and he can’t hold back the tears that come streaming down his cheeks and makes his shoulders tremble.

He misses her so fucking much. )

“  _... Play your horn, don’t spare the tone, and blow a little soul into the tune..._  “

Jennifer whistles there, in the holotape, in lieu of a trumpet and it makes Adust grin despite himself, makes him break into a small laugh that quickly devolves into a heaving sob. He hasn’t heard her voice like this in so, so long, his soul aching for her presence — his Jennifer, his  _closest friend_ , and hearing her sing like this makes it almost feel like she’s back again. Making her weird jokes, laughing too loud at them, stealing his comics, yelling at her law books as if they could give her an answer.

The jazzy swing tune she plays over the holotape feels so painfully out of place — here, in the skeletal remains of their bedroom in the winter’s afternoon chill, him kneeling in the place they used to sleep. Her voice so chipper, delightful, and he misses her spirit so much. Her positive energy, her sunshine, the fact she seemed to be a neverending reservoir of love and light with always some to spare if he needed to tap into it. He feels it, now, in the way she sings in the holotape, the way her voice strains at some higher pitches she can’t quite reach. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like she’s here all over again.

An abrupt, robotic throat clearing makes his eyes snap open just as the holotape reaches it’s end and plays static for a second or two before stopping completely. Adust looks back over his shoulder. His eyes feel swollen and weary — he knows he looks like a mess, and even though Codsworth doesn’t have a face, he can’t help but feel like the robot’s about to cry too.

“Mum was... her voice was so beautiful.” Codsworth says, voice breaking and warbling with tears he doesn’t have. Adust only nods, with more agreement than he can express. “Sir, should I — should I leave you be?”

Adust swallows, harsh. He doesn’t — it doesn’t feel right to shoo Codsworth away. Codsworth was,  _is_ , still part of his family, Mr Handy or not. Jennifer had been over the moon when they bought him. Codsworth was there just as much as Adust was over the months of the pregnancy, being such an immense help. It feels wrong, telling Codsworth to leave him alone when Codsworth probably misses Jennifer as much as he does.

But he nods anyway. Promises himself, internally, to listen to some of these with Codsworth at some point. But not right now. Right now, he just —

He wants to pretend, for even a second, that she’s still here with him. That it’s just the two of them again, taking on the world together.

“I — please take care, sir.” Codsworth says, sounding so pitiful Adust’s heart squeezes just that bit more, “And do come back to the house for dinner.”

And with that Codsworth floats off. Leaves Adust alone in his old empty bedroom, with a box of memories and a heart full of missing. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, and then takes out another holotape.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Doesn’t know how much time passes as he places holotape after holotape in, sometimes replaying the same one over and over and over, just to hear her voice. The way she sometimes whistles where there would be trumpets, the way she sometimes laughs in between verses or at the end of songs. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, lost in time, imagining her there with him again, laughing and singing to songs they barely know.

( He used to play guitar, even, with her.  _For_  her. When they were young, before they moved into the new house, before he went to the army, before he learnt to put heads in crosshairs from hundreds and hundreds of feet away.

He wishes he’d played more for her, while he still could have. )

He doesn’t even realize the dimming of the sky until he hears a light knock against the doorframe. He jolts — eyes wide and still streaming with tears as he looks up, almost reaching for his rifle until he realizes who it is.

“Hey there, sugar. Codsworth said you might be here.” Daisy says from the doorway, voice gentle. She smiles at him as he eases back down, sniffing noisily as he wipes his eyes with the palm he isn’t leaning against. He almost doesn’t notice the moment recognition hits her — the way her pitch eyes widen, the way she straightens. “Wait. Is that — “

His pip-boy is singing  _you must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss_  —

Adust nods, uselessly tries to wipe away at the fresh tears that come to his eyes at Daisy’s realization. He leans back against the wall, inhales shakily. Daisy’s eyes glimmer, just so in the dying light, as she takes slow footsteps over.

“My god,” Daisy breathes, voice fraying just a little at the edges as she comes to a stop just a few steps away from him, “That’s... That’s really her, isn’t it?”

Adust hesitates for barely a beat before he nods again. Doesn’t trust his voice, the way his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, the way it still burns with tears yet to shed. He only just notices how dim it’s getting outside, right as Daisy slowly comes to sit by him, an arm across one raised knee, astonishment in her eyes. The prickle of grief. She, of all people, would know Jennifer’s voice anywhere.

They don’t talk for awhile. Just listening to a voice of someone long gone but eternally loved, remembered, cherished and missed deeply — Jennifer sings  _no matter what the future brings, as time goes by,_  and time does.

By the time the holotape moves to static, the sky’s gently dipping into darker, cooler tones, stars already beginning to twinkle behind the cover of the setting sun. Daisy’s staring at the floor, eyes still glimmering with unshed tears, breathing deliberately slow, brown hair tied in the immaculate bun. Adust inhales, as much as he can through his clogged nose, and wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm. Smears the tears across his cheeks, wipes the snot off onto his sleeve, presses his mouth to the back of his hand as he stares at the holotapes he’s scattered in front of him.

He misses her. He misses her  _so fucking much_ , and some days it’s easier for him to feel like he’s moving on, feel like he’s healing, but then there are moments like this and  _this_ , this, it makes him want to dissolve. Disappear.

He just wants her  _back_.

“She sang for me and Hank’s anniversary, you know.” Daisy suddenly says, breaks the silence. Her voice rough, crackling at the edges, and when he turns to look at her she’s thumbing one of the holotapes. “That exact song.”

Adust swallows. Wets his cracked lips. Tries to summon his voice again. “I — yeah. I remember.” He croaks.

“Hank even asked for an encore,” Daisy laughs, voice a little wet, “and again, and again, until she threw a napkin at him.”

“She nearly threw wine over you both trying to give a speech,” Adust recalls, finding a wavering grin right back. “And then wine over  _me_ , after that. Picture of grace.”

Daisy snorts goodnaturedly, and settles back on a hand. Thumbs the holotape before putting it down again. “She was a good person.”

Adust hums his agreements. Feels the words down to his bones.  _She was a good person_ , the truest thing he’s ever heard.

They lapse back into silence. Not uncomfortable, just... companionable. Daisy looking through the various holotapes, himself sitting, trying to both hold himself together and also melt through the cracks in the floor, find a way to the earth beneath the house and make his way back to Jennifer, somehow. There’s a sense of missing her so overwhelming that he almost doesn’t feel like he belongs in his own body. Feels almost like this isn’t real.

He turns back to Daisy, watching her tuck a stray strand of hair behind whatever’s left of her ears. Watches her pluck up a holotape that has  _Rainbow Connection_  scrawled on the side.

He remembers, vividly, how she’d looked when she was younger. Human. Wise, sharp as whip —  _abrasive_ , some would call her.  _Hot headed_  and  _stubborn as a bull_. 

But Jennifer would call her  _loyal_  and  _funny_  and  _smart_  and while Adust never did hang out with Daisy much pre-war, too busy out in the field and then too awkward around Daisy when she started coming around to visit the pregnant Jennifer, he sort of wishes he had. Wishes he had at least been more than just an acquaintance, or a husband-of-her-friend to her, because he gets it now. He sees, more than anything, the kindness and the patience Jennifer always told him about.

He, abruptly, realizes just how much he  _admires_  her. Daisy. Not just idly, or in any small way — he admires her, in a way that hits him all at once. For someone to still be so kind, to be so patient, to be so  _good_  after all of this — she’d lost more than he did, after all. Hadn’t even gotten the privilege of a vault. Had to watch the world die around her in slow motion, had to watch her outlive everyone she loved and then survive the apocalypse at the same time.

And she’s still here. Someway, somehow.

( Jennifer always did have good judge of character. )

“How do you do it?” Adust croaks, breaking the silence for the second time. Watches her blink and turn to him, confused.

“Afraid you’re gonna have to be more specific, hon.” Daisy replies, raising a brow. “Do what?”

“This, all of this. Coping, with — how do you deal with it?” Adust says. Tries to gesture, weakly, to nothing at all, before giving up. “All this missing.”

The look in her eyes go gentle. Soft, in the way it always gets whenever she talks to him about the past, a little sad. She hums a little, looking back at the holotape in her hands, before turning back to him.

“Just gets easier with time, I guess. Sounds cliche, I know, but only ‘cause it’s true. Doesn’t mean it ever stops hurting, but you start to get used to it. And you stop latching onto it.” Daisy says, slow and steady, never patronizing. “Still some days I miss Hank something fierce. Miss my friends, my family. Miss Jennifer, too. Makes me feel like those first few weeks all over again — from the hospital and straight into the apocalypse. Feels like my heart’s damn near about to swallow itself up, because sometimes it just hits all over again that I’m here without them. You know?”

Adust swallows. Nods. He knows. God, does he know.

“But you can’t let it stay with you. Can’t latch onto that grief, can’t let it eat you up — you gotta know it’s there, and then you let it pass. After awhile you accept it. You accept that you miss ‘em and you may never stop missing ‘em, but you also accept that they’re not coming back. And after awhile you let go. Some days are easier, some days are harder. But we get by.” Daisy smiles. “How to deal with all this missing — you already know. Said it yourself, didn’t you, to that reporter.

“One day. One step. You’ll get there.”

Having his words echoed back to him that way, with the smile on Daisy’s face — it makes one break across his face too, to his own surprise. Makes him laugh, just a little, and Daisy grins back.  _She really is amazing_ , he thinks, hopes that Jennifer can hear him wherever she is. Imagines her saying  _told you so_  right back at him. The thought makes more tears come to his eyes — but they don’t feel quite so heavy.

“I wish I could’ve done more for you. Wish I could’ve been around to help. Especially after Hank.” Adust says, apologetic, and fully honest. “I don’t know how I could repay you for — for everything.”

Daisy looks at him, and then barks out a laugh. “Sugar — no repayments necessary,  _please_. You have no idea how much of a pleasure it is for  _me_  to see an old friend again. God knows how many caps I would’ve been willing to throw down before just to have someone to talk to who remembers my Hank, or even the goddamn playoffs. Makes me feel a little less insane somedays.” Daisy smiles, genuine and sincere, as she moves forward to take his hand into her own. “Hon, I’m happy to just  _be_  here and see you again, even though the circumstances are frankly shit. You’re doing the world for me just keeping around. Just do that, and we’re even.”

Adust grins right back, a little more confident this time, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Swear I’m trying, Daisy.”

“Atta boy.” Daisy winks, and pats the back of the hand she’s holding.

He smiles back at her, before he glimpses back at their hands for a moment. Frowns a little still, as he gently touches the spot on her left ring finger, left empty. A spot he catches her rubbing with her thumb idly, even these days.

She seems to catch on, the way her eyes go a little sad again, though her smile remains. “Lost it a couple of months ago. Not so long before we met again, actually.”

“What happened?” Adust asks, trying not to pry too hard.

Daisy just shrugs a little. “Was guiding the trade caravan into Goodneighbour when supermutants started shooting. I got into a scuffle with a hound. Managed to fight it off without a scratch, but my ring came off in the fray. I tried to look for it, after, but it was already gone, and under all that dirt and rubble and bodies — I gave up hope after the first few days.”

Adust frowns, apologetic, as he lowers her hand and releases it. “I’m — I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Nothing to be done about it now anyways. No use crying over it. A couple of centuries past it’s resting time anyway.” Daisy says, sounding more nonchalant than she undoubtedly feels, he thinks. At least until she shoots another smile his way. “I’d lost it once before. MacCready helped me find it. He tried to look for it again after i lost it the second time, but I guess my luck with that ring ran out.”

“I heard about it. The first time, I mean.” Adust replies, smiling back. “MacCready is — he’s good. Better than good.”

The look in Daisy’s eyes are knowing when she nods. Looks  _proud_ , a little, in a way that makes Adust feel a little proud too. “Better than he knows, that idiot.” Daisy says, and Adust laughs.

( MacCready should be back any day now. He Adust wonders if MacCready’s sneezing, wherever he may be. )

The sun’s fully gone down, outside. They’ve only got the moonlight left to guide them. It’s not until Daisy shivers and his own stomach growls does he realize how long they’ve been sitting there, how long  _he’s_  been sitting there. He remembers what Codsworth had asked, earlier, for him to be back in time for dinner, and he can already see the settlers making their way over to the common house, one of the new settlers — one of the women, with auburn hair, Rose if he remembers right — getting the fire going to cook on. Radstag for dinner. He’s  _starved._

“Getting cold.” Adust says, making Daisy snort.

“Just figured out it’s winter?” Daisy remarks, makes Adust laugh sheepishly.

He stands, offers his hand. Helps her stand too when she takes it. “What say we head back to the house? There’s — we’re having radstag for dinner, I think. And I have something I want to give you.”

Daisy dusts her coat, raises a brow at him. “Well, I’m not saying no to radstag, but you don’t gotta give me anything, sugar. Already got me that nice suit for Christmas, didn’t you?”

Adust smiles at her, simultaneously amused and halfway shy, cocking a brow a little. “Would it help if I said that it’s something I stole from a rich, pompous bitch from right under her nose?”

Daisy  _stares_ , and then bursts out laughing. Hard enough to rasp, enough that Adust is grinning wide when she recovers, offering his arm.

“Well hell, how’m I supposed to say no to that?” Daisy grins, mirth still in her eyes. She hooks her arm around his, amused. “Lead the way, hon.”

( Later that night, he comes back for the holotapes. Places half of them with care in one of the deeper compartments of his pack, to keep safe. A few, he leaves with Codsworth to store away, and absolutely doesn’t hint about having Sturges fix up the old holotape player into working condition so Codsworth can play them himself, whenever.

The rest of the holotapes, he leaves with Daisy, alongside a shining gold ring that she wears on her right hand. As expected — it looks better on her than it ever did on Codman. )

 

* * *

 

 

Adust hears the caravan coming more than he sees them. He’s with Sturges and Jun when it happens — they’re fixing up houses for the spring, and Adust is up to his arms in scrap metal, taken from the few houses in Sanctuary that weren’t so fortunate in the fallout. The others that’re still standing, and that’s what they’re trying to fix up. Patch up walls, get some wiring done. Exterminate any leftover bugs. A place for people to stay once the winter is over and the Commonwealth starts warming up again — they’re doing fine with their current daily sleepover situation, but more settlers will be coming in the springtime and one house won’t be enough for everyone after that. The ones that are already up are in dire need of a patchup, and heating. 

Sturges is halfway telling Jun about plans to turn Saugus Ironworks into a proper working Minutemen forge and factory when there’s the sound of yelling just over at the other half of Sanctuary.

“ — aw, shit, c’mon Lady, get up — “

“ — ry boss, looks like it’s about — “

“ — it, stop it, we’re wasting time, we’re already here and it’s not gonna survive — “

“ — just  _shut up_  and help me get these things off of her!”

Adust knows that voice. He knows it anywhere. He’s off to find it before Jun and Sturges even have half the mind to jog up after.

The commotion is coming from the bridge going into Sanctuary — there’s a group of people surrounding what looks to be a pack brahmin, overloaded and exhausted, collapsed sideways, tongues lolling out of the two heads and panting. There’s three armed people beside the brahmin, one woman looking amused, one man looking bored and exasperated simultaneously, and another man squatting down beside the brahmin’s heads, looking distraught and stressed beyond words.

There’s also another man, the only one really doing anything, bulked in winter layers but with a familiar dusky green cap, .308s shining in the afternoon sun while he tries to untie the ropes holding the packs to the brahmin.

( It’s been barely a month and a half, but something gentle and warm melts somewhere in Adust’s bones at the sight of him again.

It’s been awhile. )

Preston’s jogging up to the scene before Adust can say anything, breaths coming out in clouds of white mist as he makes his way past Sturges and Jun and the other gathered settlers. “What’s going on?”

“Seems like the car’s stalled.” One of the settlers — Deckard, Adust remembers — notes, sounding a little amused and a little sympathetic, though it’s hard to tell behind the dark glasses. “Brahmin’s down.”

“‘scuse me, comin’ through — aw, hell, I thought I heard something familiar.” Daisy’s voice, this time, cuts through the crowd as she weaves her way to the front. Pats an apologetic hand to Preston. “Sorry, sugar, they’re with me. Fred?”

“Lady’s down,” the distraught man, Fred, howls. Looks reasonably upset about the whole thing. “She’s been weak since the Capital but I thought she could pull through — “

“And  _I_  said we didn’t give her enough rest, but did  _any_  of you listen to me?” MacCready snarls, finally giving up on the rope and slicing it apart with the knife he keeps strapped to his waist, letting the packs tumble down.

The bored caravan guard rolls his eyes. “Dramatics aside, can we get this over with?”

“Nearest vet we’ve got is all the way down at Bunker Hill,” another settler’s voice pops up, from the house nearby — Sharon, the one with the belly full of baby, and her wife at her hip — “Maybe we could get ‘em to come here?”

“In  _these_  conditions? Unlikely.” Says the amused caravan guard, “No one’s gonna want to make the trip back and forth and freeze to death.”

“The brahmin doesn’t look so good. Might as well do it a mercy, slit the throats right quick. Could have a nice steak dinner in our future.” Says Sharon, arms crossed and brows raised, to Rose’s chagrined look and hissed  _Sharon!_

It’s quickly devolving into, quite spectacularly, a shitshow. Fred the caravaneer in near hysterics over his downed brahmin, Daisy trying and failing to console him, the amused caravan woman quite obviously egging him on to her coworker’s exasperated dismay and MacCready’s growing frustration, Rose and Sharon having a lover’s quarrel off to the sidelines, Deckard watching on in pitying amusement, Jun looking overwhelmed to Adust’s left, Sturges looking conflicted to Adust’s right, and Preston in the middle of it all looking helplessly and hopelessly frazzled. Even Dogmeat, who’s trotting up and excited over the gathering of his favourite humans, has stopped a couple feet away, panting and head tilted in confusion over the volume.

( Adust thanks every god he does and doesn’t believe in that Marcy and Codsworth had gone off earlier to gather firewood while Mama Murphy took her afternoon nap. If they’d been around? Sanctuary would be on  _fire_. )

It’s all getting a bit much. Tensions are rising higher by the second and Adust could swear their volumes will be enough to hear from diamond city at this rate. A little desperate, he gives into an idea — he knows that Codsworth’s been trying to get Dogmeat to learn a few tricks lately, and Adust has tried a few himself. As he leans down and pats his leg and beckons the pup forward to sit at his heels, he hopes it works, at least for this situation.

“Dogmeat,” Adust says, voice nearly unheard over the din of hysterics happening behind him, “Howl.”

 _Ought to give the robot a polishing as thanks_ , Adust thinks as Dogmeat is the bestest boy ever and tilts his canine snout up, unleashing a long,  _loud_  howl that makes even Adust wince and cover his ears. It’s super effective. The rest of the crowd begins to follow suit — maybe not plugging ears but definitely wincing, and  _definitely_  shutting up. Dogmeat’s howl tapers off a couple of beats after, and the pooch looks back at Adust, tongue out and panting, looking absolutely pleased with itself.  _Good dog_.

It did the trick, Adust figures. The problem now is that everyone’s attention has been taken off of each other and directly at  _him_ , and he feels himself shrinking with every gaze turned his way.

( He really wishes he’d replaced his gasmask. )

Suddenly awkward and not sure what to do with his hands, Adust opts to stay crouched down with Dogmeat, busying himself by scratching the happy canine behind the ears while he looks for the best eyes in the crowd to land on.  _Preston._

“There’s, uh. There’s Connie.” Adust says, tries not to mumble. “Abernathy farm. She’s not a  _vet_  but she has brahmin. She would know what to do.”

Silence. Beat, beat,  _beat_ , it stretches on for what feels like  _hours_  with embarrassment burning at the back of Adust’s neck, as he turns to look back at Dogmeat, though in reality must be just a couple of seconds, until —

“Adust is right,” Preston says, voice cutting through the awkward silence and tension like a hot knife through butter and  _thankfully_  putting all eyes back on him, “The Abernathys have experience with brahmin, they’ll at least know what to do next, and they’re not too far away, so I can bring them over within a few hours. Ah — Fred, was it?”

“Yun-hunh?” goes the pitiful caravaneer, voice starting to sound mighty wet, “Tha’s me.”

Preston’s look at him is a little warmer, pulling out that ol’ gentle charm that comes with being the general of the Minutemen and also generally sounding more confident and calm now that people are actually  _listening_  to him, “Don’t worry about Lady here, we’ll find a way to help her out, and help  _you_  out. For the time being, why don’t you unload, bring your stuff over to the common house? We can give you shelter and some food while we wait for the Abernathy’s, maybe do some trading.”

“And I know people that’ll help out if the worst happens.” Daisy pitches in, the  _Lady ain’t gonna make it_  going unsaid but very heard. “Now pick yourself up, Fred, you’re makin’ a fool of yourself out here.”

And with that, it’s over. People stroll off back to their jobs, or at least whatever they were doing before the brahmin chose an opportune time to begin the slow process of kicking the bucket. Preston, Daisy and Fred are pulling aside to discuss their next move, Rose and Sharon and Deckard have gone to help the caravan guards with unloading the brahmin and moving the things to the communal house, Jun and Sturges have headed back to figure out their scrap metal problem, MacCready is —

Looking right at him.

Adust doesn’t know why his pulse flutters at the sight of those blue eyes looking at him again, or why he immediately feels a smile tug at the edges of his mouth at the same time. All he does know is that MacCready’s own cat-lipped mouth is smiling back, almost hesitantly before going into a grin, and Adust finds his own spreading before he can think about it, standing and walking over, Dogmeat at his heel obediently but tail wagging like mad at the sight of a friend returned.

Adust takes in what he’s missed over the past month and a half, wonders what he’s missed. Takes in skin goosebumping in the cold, hair looking longer than usual stuffed under that dusky green cap, patches of stubble going unshaved, some bruises here and there from wasteland travel. He doesn’t know if the red of MacCready’s neck and ears and nose and cheeks are from the cold or from something else, but it’s —  _endearing_  to Adust all the same. 

They meet each other halfway. “Hey,” Adust says, smiles half-awkward, half-pleased.

“Hey yourself.” MacCready replies, crooking a grin, before getting down on a knee to run his hands through Dogmeat’s fur, giving the dog all the scratches. “You did a good job there, huh boy? Who’s a good boy?”

“ _He_ seems glad that you didn’t die,” Adust grins, can’t help himself now, “Hope you didn’t leave any pieces behind.”

“Took a couple of potshots from some pissed off raiders, a swipe from a baby yao guai, nothing I couldn’t handle.” MacCready smirks, smug as he ever is, standing up. “So what’d I miss?”

“Well, we’ve got some new settlers. You’ll meet them later. None of the other houses have working heaters, so we’re all sleeping in the common house ‘til the winter’s over, but we’re trying to scrap the other houses in the meantime and patch up the salvageable ones. Mama Murphy’s trying to quit her chem problem with Marcy overseeing her, Preston still has me helping some of the nearby Minutemen settlements, Sturges is thinking of making saugus ironworks a proper factory again or at least Minutemen forge central — I think that’s it?”

MacCready snorts. Starts walking to the common house. “So basically you’ve been doing chores for the last two months.”

“Don’t sound so jealous,” Adust muses right back, falling into step immediately, “Now that you’re back in town,  _you_  get to join in on the chores too. Excited?”

“Oh, what, c’mon! I just  _got_  here, been walking for two weeks straight, my legs are dead.”

“Then you can sit your ass down and help unscrew desk fans. Don’t need to walk for that.”

“Slave driver,” MacCready shoots.

“ _Team player,_ ” Adust corrects.

They exchange amused smirks, which quickly moves into laughter as they head to the house. They don’t even have to look — they fall into step as if they never were apart, as if they were  _closer_ , even. It’s funny almost — how distance really  _has_  made the heart grow fonder, how they’ve settled into each other somehow over the last few months. It feels good, it feels  _right_ , walking side by side again. Feels a little less lonely, even though they’ve been around people all month.

MacCready abruptly pauses in the doorway. Adust finds himself pausing too.  There’s a moment of brief hesitation, awkwardness — both of them looking at each other and not quite sure what to do next. MacCready’s looking right at him, and Adust is looking back. As if there’s something to be debated about before continuing. Adust starts to worry, after a beat. About to ask if something is wrong —

And then something in the tension snaps, Adust thinks he hears a  _fuck it_ , and that fear dissolves almost instantly as they MacCready hesitantly grabs him for a half hug, one that Adust finds himself frozen in for a second before he turns it into a full one.

It’s a tight hug, one that says  _I’m glad you’re alive_  in more meanings than one, and  _I’ve missed you, jackass_  lying a little further and more subtly deep inside. MacCready’s fist pressed against his shoulderblade, Adust’s hand clasped tight at the cold nape of MacCready’s neck, right beneath the scarf. It feels almost like the embrace at Fort Hagen all over again — except this time it’s better, because it’s a reunion. It’s happy. Adust is grinning into MacCready’s skinny shoulder and MacCready is grinning right back, Adust knows, thumping Adust’s back a couple of times before they separate.

“It’s really good to see you again,” MacCready laughs a little into Adust’s shoulder, muffled by the coat, “Glad you’re not dead either, hotshot.”

Adust smiles hard enough to hurt. “Welcome back, MacCready.”

 

* * *

 

 

Adust isn’t the only one glad to see a familiar face back on familiar ground. Mama Murphy welcomes MacCready back with warm arms, Marcy only scowls in a way that says she tolerates him. Jun waves meekly, Codsworth exuberantly exclaims his joy and relief, Preston nods briefly, tight and tense, but the effort is there. Rose and sharon introduce themselves, and Adust only barely misses the soft, sad look in MacCready’s eyes over the swell of Sharon’s belly. Deckard only nods and waves a little. Sturges, ever the opportunist, is quick to welcome MacCready back, and then immediately not-so-subtly asks if MacCready would ever be interested in doing a fella a favour and help him hammer up some guard posts and walls after he’s rested.

They talk. They eat. Daisy’s caravan and Mac both tuck in early for the night, both for their own sakes and because Preston’s kind enough to put down dear lady while Fred’s asleep. Looks like they’ll be having steaks for breakfast after all.

Sanctuary welcomes MacCready home like he’s always been there. And maybe they’re not wrong.

They take their time catching up, him and MacCready. And the best part is — it comes  _so easy_. Like breathing. Like they never left. Like this is how it’s supposed to be; Adust and MacCready, MacCready and Adust, side by side.

They’ve been working together for months before, fighting together before they even became friends. So no one’s surprised, least of all them, when they start pairing up again to do missions, the two of them falling into sync when fighting that they barely even need to tell each other what to do anymore. A sniper should never work alone after all, and they spend the next week or so helping out with the usual Sanctuary and Minutemen chores, like always. The only difference is that they’re back together. 

And it’s a difference that matters. They help re-clear Taafington Boathouse from a cold yao guai. They help the settlers in Starlight Drive-In with their water problem. They escort Daisy’s caravan friends down to Drumlin Diner, where they meet with Daisy’s friend Kelly and a big sturdy brahmin to take the old one’s place. Take out a few supermutants bothering the folks at the Slog. Finish off some straggling raiders inhabiting the Slocum’s Joe in Lexington. Hunt for radstag so the people in Sanctuary will get to eat something tomorrow morning. ( All without the looming invisible clock bearing its weight on Adust’s shoulders. All without the threat of badly repressed grief clouding his vision every ten seconds, hands around his neck, ready to squeeze and snap. )

A lot of things checked off the list. A lot easier to do so when there’s good company. Sanctuary was good company, real good — but with Daisy  _and_  MacCready both there, it’s  _better_.

MacCready helps where he can, grumbling goodnaturedly about menial labour, grumbling a little less when it comes to hunting. Adust rolls with the punches. Helps where he can. Some days are still hard, but they’re coming by less often. It helps to have people around him who know what he’s been through. Who  _get it_. And these people, he’d do anything for back. Adust doesn’t heal any faster, doesn’t miraculously skip out on the tedious process of grieving just because MacCready is back around — but it does help. And with Daisy around too, and the others, Sanctuary is starting to really feel like home again.

So when Daisy announces that she’s heading back to Goodneighbour after about two weeks of easy living, Adust can’t help the bitter twinge of disappointment in his chest.

“Aw, c’mon, sugar, don’t look at me like that.” Daisy says, finishing the packing of her already light travel bag. “Can’t leave the shop empty forever.”

“I know,” Adust says, almost meek, knows embarrasedly that he already sounds like a petulant child, “Just. Thought you could stick around a little longer.”

“Pretty sure Hancock would understand if you stayed here ‘til spring at least,” MacCready tries, looking a little bummed himself, hands in his pockets, scowling sulky. “Not like the trade routes are getting any less frozen. And I just got here.”

“As nice as spending the rest of winter with you Sanctuary folk sounds fine ‘n dandy, I  _do_  have a business to run, 300-something days of the year.” Daisy points out, smiling, hauling the pack on. “I leave Goodneighbour any longer and Kleo’s gonna level my shop with that fatman launcher of hers like I know she’s always wanted to, crazy damn robot.”

“Well, if she does, I hope you know you’re always welcome back here.” Adust manages to laugh a little, and MacCready snorts.

Daisy just rolls her eyes with good humour, smile quirking right back. “Noted with thanks. Now how about you boys make yourself useful and escort a lady back to her shop, hmm? ‘S quite a ways to Goodneigbour for just one old ghoul.”

They do. Daisy says her goodbyes to the Sanctuary crew, nods and waves and wishes them all the best surviving through the cold. Dogmeat whines when the three of them cross the footbridge and wave goodbye — Adust and MacCready should be back within the next few days, assuming nothing comes up between sending Daisy back and maybe checking on some noise complaints from Cambridge, but it’ll be awhile before Daisy checks back into somewhere this far out from Boston, and her presence will be a missed thing.

They head out right before noon and make good pace. The cold winter means a lot of the usual wasteland dangers are hiding from the nasty chill — raiders and Gunners staying inside where the barrel fires are warm and there’s booze aplenty, the feral ghouls frozen stiff by the temperatures, and most of the deathclaws headed somewhere warmer for their cold blood. Only creatures still out and about are the less deadly wasteland fare — the radstags, the yao guais, the brahmin — though they keep their distance too, focused on conserving energy than charging at passers by. The way down to Boston is quiet, save from the gentle conversation between the three of them, looking as close as kin.

They cut through the roads they can, narrowly avoiding slippery patches and generally making good time. The sky’s just about dimming by the time they skirt around the Commons and catch the glowing neon of Goodneighbour’s gates. The neighbourhood watch look only a little miserable when they open up for the three of them — a few say their hellos and welcome backs to Daisy and MacCready both, and a nod to Adust from the amicable ones.

Goodneighbour smells faintly of stale piss and drink as it always does, and Daisy hums when she unlocks the shutter and rolls it up noisily, making Adust wince and MacCready sniff, rubbing his reddened nose with his coatsleeve.

“This is me,” Daisy says conversationally, walking back into her shop that’s been gathering dust, “You boys gonna stay the night? Bit too frozen out to travel safe.”

“Yeah, we — “ and MacCready sneezes, once, before continuing, “ — We’ll head back in the morning I guess.”

“The Rexford will do for tonight, then we’ll head back in the morning.” Adust confirms. “Do some recon at Cambridge, there’s been some complaints from Greygarden about a commotion.”

Daisy nods, dropping her travel bag on her counter. “Need supplies?”

“Nah, we’re good,” MacCready answers for them, “Though if you get any .308s in — “

“ — I’ll be sure to set ‘em aside for you two, don’t worry, I know the drill.” Daisy laughs, shaking her head, eyes filled with mirth. “Well, alright then. Stay warm, you two. Try not to get shot out there.”

“Like we do it on purpose,” MacCready rolls his eyes, to Adust’s chuckle, “Fine, I promise we’ll try.”

“If you ever need anything...” Adust trails off, looking at her sincerely, because he knows he could never pay her back for her kindness, “Stay safe, Daisy. Take care of yourself.”

“Criminy, you two, you’re makin’ it sound like I’m gonna die the second you turn around. I’ve been around over two hundred years, it’s gonna take an army to knock me to the grave.” Daisy snorts, handwaves it away. “You two should be the ones to look out, what with all the derring-do you insist on. I swear, I’m gonna wake up tomorrow and hear you two getting up to some new life-threatening mischief. Giving an old woman heart problems, that’s what you’re doing. Should be ashamed of yourselves. Who’m I gonna sell all the junk to if you guys go bleeding out on the dirt?”

“As long as you’re around, we’ll keep coming back.” MacCready assures, grinning and winking for good measure, laughing when Daisy snorts hard enough to hurt, eyes watering.

“We’ll try our best not to die, scout’s honour.” Adust says, once they’re done, moving over to hug Daisy. Hold her, and hopes all his gratitude will transfer over somehow. When she hugs him back and presses a grand, wet kiss on his cheek, he has a feeling she understands — though maybe she’s just doing it for fun, judging by how MacCready squawks when she insists on doing the same back (though Adust doesn’t ignore the way MacCready’s hand twists in her coat, holds her as tight as he did, smiles with gratitude into her shoulder.)

In the end, Daisy gives them a few somethings all the same — some cans of purified water, a cherry Nuka Cola, and the infamous strips of radstag jerky that has the consistency of tire leather and half as much flavour. Adust tries his hand — or teeth, rather — at it as they walk over to the Rexford, and pointedly ignores the way MacCready laughs at him and the way he utterly fails at tearing any piece of it off. To his credit, Adust only elbows MacCready once, and then stuffs the piece back into his pack. Dogmeat might get more use out of it, when they get back to Sanctuary.

The wasteland is naturally a little quieter come winter, and Goodneighbour, while always wilder than the wildest of the wastes, is no exception. The neighbourhood guard look positively miserable standing out in the cold, which garners a little of Adust’s pity, though he moves quickly on when one of them barks a  _what’re you lookin’ at_  at him. Even the streets at the end of the neighbourhood, usually filled to the brim with drifters and scavvers just needing a place to sleep where their chances of getting shot are at least marginally less than the wide wasteland, is empty, bare of anyone dumb enough to chance sleeping out in these temperatures and hoping to open their eyes again.

Though, Adust  _does_  find out pretty quick where those scavvers and drifters ended up in.

“Hey! Look who’s back in Goodneighbour. Almost thought the wasteland got the better of you two.” calls a familiar when they open the hotel double doors, makes MacCready’s eyes widen and brighten.

“Hancock!” MacCready laughs, surging forward to greet the mayor of this humble town, and Adust trails slower behind, letting the door swing shut and the heated walls of the Rexford bring some circulation back to his fingers.

The Rexford is oddly full tonight — sure, there’s almost always a steady stream of customers looking for slightly better guarded shelter and slightly less rank mattresses, but tonight it’s  _full._  There’s mattresses along the floor, scavvers and drifters alike gathered and talking, some already asleep by the quieter corners, Claire looking wholeheartedly unamused by the counter. There’s only just enough room to walk among all these people and bedrolls.

In front of him is the mayor himself — still decked in his notable historical coat and tricorn, though Adust figures it’s because he doesn’t have to travel out far through the cold. Laughing, with MacCready, giving what Adust can only label as a bro-hug, thumping backs and grinning like friends in on a secret, and Adust allows himself to smile a little, feel warmed a little, at the way MacCready’s eyes crinkle up with humour and mirth. 

( He remembers when they used to watch him with guarded wariness. Dread and threat. Irritation, frustration, annoyance.

He doesn’t know when they’ve started being bright and warm around him, but he’s not complaining. )

“ — d to see you’re alive and well, brother. The watch only told me they saw you comin’ in and grabbing Daisy and heading out. Ain’t heard a word since.” Adust catches Hancock saying, as he finally comes closer, still hanging back a little awkward, busies himself by pretending to look through his pip-boy. “Poor Goodneighbour’s been without a solid trader  _or_  medic for weeks, Doc Amari nearly swung me one when I asked her for help the fifth time. And you almost scared me to death disappearing like that.”

“Not going down that easy, Hancock,” MacCready laughs, “Just had some sh — just had some stuff to settle, is all. Headed back home for a bit, just got back a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yeah? Everything good?” Hancock asks, eyes abruptly soft, serious. “Home alright?”

Even MacCready seems surprised at the abrupt shift in tone, eyes widened, swallowing hard. Adust wonders how much Hancock knows. “Ah — yeah. It’s alright. It’s good. Better than good.”

“Glad to hear it, brother.” Hancock says, sincerely and warmer than Adust has ever heard him, though it changes just as snap-quick as Hancock’s dark eyes turn to Adust, giving a low whistle. “That you, vaultie?”

Adust tenses at the name, more out of surprise than anything else at suddenly being pulled into the conversation, and also out of realizing that this is the first time Hancock’s seen his face without the gasmask in between them. “Uh —yeah.”

Hancock’s dark eyes make Adust feel self-conscious, the way it rakes over his frame and back up to his eyes, before Hancock’s face splits into an almost lewd grin. “Not bad! Hiding some seriously good stuff behind the mask, what a damn shame.” And then he thumps MacCready hard across the back, enough to make MacCready cough. “You lucky sonuvabitch. Guess that’s why you stuck around, huh? Got privy to the handsome vault dweller?”

And then it’s MacCready’s turn to nearly choke, cheeks turning a startlingly warm shade, Adust’s rapidly turning the same colour, “Wh — no! I wasn’t, that’s not — “

Hancock laughs himself halfway to tears at the expense of the two of them, red-faced and a little embarrassed, before he shakes his head. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Fuck, MacCready, you make it way too easy to mess with you.” He grins. “I’ll stop holding you up, no worries. There’s still free rooms on the top floor I’m sure — Claire’ll let you in for free tonight, it’s on my tab, same as everyone here.”

Adust seizes the conversation shift with both his hands, grateful for it, willing the heat down in his face. “You’re paying for all of these people?”

Hancock nods. “Cold as shit out, if you haven’t noticed. Leaving them out in this cold would be as good as killing ‘em. What’s the point of being mayor if I can’t at least give my people a warm place to sleep?”

“I can think of one who wouldn’t.” MacCready snorts, looking off to the side and missing the way Hancock tenses, mouth thinned into a line.

“Yeah, well, maybe they ain’t oughta be mayor.” Hancock says decisively, tone dark in a way that makes MacCready and Adust point questioning eyes at him before Hancock handwaves it away, tone abruptly back to chipper. “Anyway, mayoral duties call and all that. I oughta get back to the statehouse before Fahrenheit pulls me by the — uh, ears? — back over there. And you two should grab that free room ‘afore it gets snatched up.”

“Won’t turn that down,” MacCready grins, giving a lazy salute over his shoudler as he starts towards the counter. “See you later, mayor. Promise we’ll send word if we steal Daisy away next time.”

“I’d appreciate it!” Hancock calls, humour in the corners in his mouth making Adust chuckle back. He’s halfway turning to follow after MacCready when the mayor speaks up again, just loud enough to hear, “Hey. Vaultie.”

Adust pauses. Looks at Hancock, confusion on his face, almost wary. The first impression he had of Hancock still lingers — dangerous, threatening, every part the mayor of a town like this. Never got much of a second impression. “Yeah?”

But the expression on Hancock’s face is anything but dangerous. It’s soft, almost — wistful, halfway serious, mostly just genuine. Not even looking at Adust, but at MacCready, busy talking to claire at the counter and obviously trying out his charms that are just as obviously not working to the stony-faced hotel clerk. It makes Adust relax, without even thinking about it.

“Take care of him, will you?” Hancock says, gentle, just loud enough for Adust to hear. “He’s one of the good ones.”

Adust blinks. And then nods, slow. “I will.”

It’s all the confirmation Hancock needs, apparently, judging by how he nods back and then turns and walks away. Adust can only watch, speechless, at the red frock coat that disappears behind the wooden doors that let in a gust of cold air. Watches it through the frosted windows of the hotel, and going into the statehouse.

 _What was that about?_  Adust thinks, slowly making his way over to MacCready, who’s getting the key from a sour-faced Claire.

“Hey, check it out, we even got a second mattress free of charge, and — “ MacCready’s saying, good spirits in his voice from the caps saved, before it dies down, looking confused. “Ads? You good?”

Adust looks over his shoulder one last time, before shaking his head, turning back to MacCready and offering half a smile. “I’m alright. Just thinking about the friends you’ve got. You’re lucky.”

MacCready barks out a half-laugh at that, starting towards the stairs. “Hancock? Yeah. I — I owe him a lot.”

“The Third Rail, right?” Adust questions, following after, ignoring the way the wood creaks beneath his feet.

MacCready nods as they hit the top floor, unlocks the door to their room. “Yeah. He’s just — always good to me. Don’t know why. All I did was run a couple errands, didn’t even — I don’t know. It’s just how he is, I guess.”

Adust has the innate feeling that it’s not  _just_  because it’s how Hancock is, but he keeps his mouth shut about it, and just  _hmms_  as they walk into the room. Puts their things down, and thanks one of the Rexford employees as they shove an extra mattress through the door, laying it by the wall. Adust doesn’t hesitate to take it for the night, just because he legitimately doesn’t care much about beds or mattresses so long as he has a place to sleep whereas MacCready still seems to find beds a novelty.

They settle in for the night. The fragile streetlight filters in through the misty windows, highlights the both of them in deep contrasts. Adust unties his hair, keeps his layers, save for one which he’ll bundle as a pillow tonight. MacCready’s already perched on the bed, springs loudly protesting even his slight weight. It’s probably the loudest noise Adust has heard yet tonight — winter has a funny way of turning the volume knob down on everything. Not that Goodneighbour is completely quiet — even without the usual ruckus in the streets, there’s still the hushed sounds of conversation from downstairs, beneath the thin, creaky floorboards.

They don’t talk for awhile after, settling into companionable silence. MacCready goes into his nightly ritual of dismantling his guns, pulling them apart and cleaning them and then putting them together again. Adust takes inventory of everything in his pack, makes sure nothing gets left behind. It’s a lighter than usual, he hasn’t bothered to bring anymore weapons beyond the rifle across his back and the 10mm at his hip, and there’s just enough food and water to last a couple of days. Some stims, some ammo.

More important things too, things he doesn’t dare part with; the drawings they’d found in Kellogg’s home, folded crisply and with care and tucked into a compartment; Jennifer’s ring; holotapes and holotapes. Most picked up by chance on their travels, taken out of curiosity, the others being drink recipes, interviews, that one holotape from the Boston Public Library they haven’t listened to yet — and Jennifer’s holotapes.

He picks one up, thumbing the faded ink scrawled on the side that says  _Moon River_. It’s his favourite one from her. Remembers watching the movie, and then both of them falling in love with the song immediately. Remembers going to her house after, and the both of them learning to play it by ear all afternoon. Her on the piano and him on the guitar. She always had a good ear, picked it up immediately, fell in love with the words the same way he did —  _we’re after the same rainbow’s end_ , and then she’d wink and he’d laugh himself to tears at her implications.

Even now, as he slides the holotape into the player built into his pip-boy, if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine her there with him. Plinking on the keys, smile on her face, glasses lopsided.  _Moon river, wider than a mile_.

“Huh, never heard that song before.” Comes a voice from the other bed, and Adust startles, eyes flying open. He almost forgot he had company.

MacCready’s looking at him from the bed. Looks comically bundled up in all those layers, but his hair is simultaneously flattened and mussed, the hat that caused it hanging off of the bedpost. His eyes are blue and wide and curious. A couple of months ago, before all this, those same eyes would’ve been looking at him with wary irritation more than curiosity. The change is novel, and... endearing, really.

Adust relaxes. Leans against the wall at his back and nods. “Yeah. It’s… Jennifer. Codsworth found a bunch of her holotapes — think these were meant for Shaun.”

“Oh, woah. She sounds — really good.” MacCready says, eyes wide, sincerity in every note of his tone. “She come up with this song herself?”

“Ahah, no, she loved music, but this is — this  _was_  from a movie, back then. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn?” Adust says, gauges. Feels only a little twinge of disappointment at MacCready’s look of confusion. “It’s from a movie.”

MacCready looks at him a little longer, deep blue eyes unreadable, before he huffs and turns back to the rifle he was cleaning, slow and methodical. “Never seen a movie in my life. Just... some short holotapes, sometimes, back in Little Lamplight. Dunno where they are now though.”

“Maybe we can ask some of the traders. See if anyone’s got access to film reels. And then we can fix up Starlight Drive-In, somehow, and watch, uh —  The Grognak movie.” Adust says.

He can’t stifle the smile when MacCready’s eyes go wide, straightening up and looking right at him. “They  _made_  one of those??”

Adust can’t help it — he laughs. “Yeah. It was for kids, wasn’t — it wasn’t very good, but I liked it enough. Think you might also.” And then, a little more quietly, “Duncan may like it too.”

MacCready’s eyes look down, after, averted. Makes Adust worry for a second, if he’s overstepped some invisible line — until he realizes MacCready is smiling to himself. Something sincere, something hopeful, illuminated in the gentle yellows of brittle streetlight. It makes something in Adust’s chest skip a beat, makes him smile too without thinking, especially when MacCready finally snorts.

“Yeah, no — he’d fight me for front row seats to that.” MacCready agrees, shaking his head, mirthful, finally turning back to Adust. “You know the Manta Man action figure you gave him? I swear, the second I pulled it out he cared more about it than he did about me being back. Didn’t let go of it the whole time. Couldn’t even pluck it out of his tiny fists when he went to sleep.”

“Sounds just like his father,” Adust says, laughs when MacCready throws a wadded blanket at him, “Don’t be jealous, I’ll get you one too next time — “

“Friggin’ ass,” MacCready says, though his own laughter is barely stifled, “You’re lucky I’ve got my kid around watching my conscience.”

“I’m glad he’s still around.” Adust doesn’t mean to say it, abruptly serious and sincere in the midst of a light conversation, but — he means what he says all the same. “I’m glad  _you’re_  still around.”

The way MacCready looks at him is half a second of surprise before he looks away. Adust could almost swear he’s flushed. “Yeah. I mean — me too. For him. And you.”

“He’s really doing better, then?” Adust asks, throwing MacCready a lifeline and also gently, genuinely curious. MacCready had given him a status update before, but there’s a comfort in hearing it again. “He’s recovering?”

“Oh — yeah! I mean — yeah, he’s. He’s better, I think? He’s getting there. Could sit up and greet me, called me daddy, ate all his soup and didn’t throw any of it up — “ the way MacCready smiles says more than words ever need to, and his voice cracks at the last word. Pauses to rub his sleeve across his eyes. Adust doesn’t say anything about how his cheeks glimmer damp in the moonlight. “Just caught a little cough when I left, but the docs say he should be fine if we keep it up. And I’ve got more than enough to pay ‘em, thanks to you.”

Adust barks out a small laugh, a little awkward with the praise even after all this time. “Told you before, Mac. It wasn’t anything big.”

“Maybe it wasn’t big to  _you_ , but my kid’s alive because of it, so it’s a pretty big deal to  _me_.” MacCready shoots back, and Adust shuts his mouth. His eyes are a startling blue, even in the room’s dim light. “I’m serious. Doesn’t come cheap, you know. All that medical sh — stuff. So it may be something small to you, but it means... it means everything to me. Got it?”

MacCready looks so serious. So intense, eyes piercing blue even with the way they glisten damp, and something clicks into place within Adust, makes him nod and mean it. Makes him smile.

“I got it.” Adust murmurs, even though deep in his heart he knows he doesn’t really mean it yet. MacCready is a good person, better than he’d ever give himself credit for — if Adust’s kindness meant so much, MacCready’s has repaid him tenfold. How Adust’s treated him should be the least of what he deserves. MacCready, if nothing else, deserves  _better_. And if Adust can’t make MacCready believe it by saying so aloud, he’ll do it as he’s always done anything  — quietly, subtly, until MacCready does, someday. Doesn’t even think to question the thought that MacCready will still be there by his side that far in an uncertain future. Adust knows  _he_  would be by MacCready’s, for all he can see over the horizon.

( _Two drifters, off to see the world, there’s such a lot of world to see_  — ) 

Adust must be quiet too long, though, or at least not overly convincing in his answer, because MacCready breaks the silence with a cough and a pointed look his way.  _Concern_. “Ads, you good?”

“... Yeah. I am.” Adust says, and finds with pleasant surprise, that he means it. Draws his knees up to his chest and leans his chin against them. “I will be.”

“Good.” MacCready says, simply. Means it just as much. “Good.”

“Partners, right?” Adust murmurs. Listens to the voice on the holotape and watches the man in front of him and thinks about everything he’s lost. Everything he’s gained.

(  —  _we’re after the same rainbow’s end_  — )

“My Huckleberry friend,” Adust sings along, softly, and allows the small seed of what feels like moving forwards, like _hope_ , like every possibility it holds, to take root somewhere deep in his chest.

“Sap,” MacCready snorts, and then gets a wadded blanket thrown right back at his own face, makes him sputter and Adust snort loud and ugly. They laugh until their eyes water. The holotape comes to it’s end, and then rewinds itself and plays again.

That night, they sleep better than they have in weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re kidding me.”

MacCready laughs. “Why would I make that up? I’m serious, man — literal cave.”

The new day sees them halfway down to Cambridge by mid-morning. They’d left earlier, said goodbye to Hancock and kissed Daisy on her wrinkled cheeks and walked out the Goodneighbour gates, eager to get their recon done and over with so they can reach Sanctuary before the last light tapers out. It’s a cold enough day that Adust just wants to head straight back, but he’d made a promise to Preston and the Minutemen — who are growing in steady numbers, now, settlements starting to wave the blue flag proudly  — to at least check out the cause of the ruckus that’s making the nearby settlers a little uneasy.

At the very least, he can’t complain about the company he has.

“ _That_  close to a mutant vault? Sounds too much like a coincidence.” Adust muses, as they cross the bridge and over to the Cambridge Polymer Labs. He ought to tell Preston to set up guard at the USS Riptide, though it’ll have to wait until the worst of the cold snap is over. “How would you know what’s in it if there was that much radiation around it?”

“Trust me, I saw enough to know without ever going in. And I had a, uh — a friend, who did, and told us everything. They were always a little bit kooky.” MacCready replies back, in step. The morning sun casts shadows over the buildings, and an eyebot rolls on by, talking about job offers to a non-existent populace. “Anyway, you haven’t seen  _anything_  here in this wasteland yet. Deathclaws?  _Psh_. I think you’d sh — crap yourself if you saw a centaur.”

“I don’t know — I think I’d be a little better with a half-horse thing than a gigantic angry lizard.” Adust shrugs. “And the human half would be easier to shoot.”

MacCready only stares, scrunches his brows in disbelief. “The heck is a horse?”

Adust doesn’t get to answer. Just barely gets to mirror MacCready’s expression and open his mouth to reply when there’s the sudden barrage of gunshots in the not-so-distance, that gets Adust and MacCready throwing themselves to the side and pressing themselves up against the wall immediately, feeling brick through their layers and gripping their rifles.

“Laserfire.” MacCready says, low and quiet, looking past the corner. “Damn it, I can’t see anything from here, I think it’s further down — think it’s Gunners?”

“Could be. Or anyone else with a laser rifle.” Adust shrugs. “Let’s go down and see.”

MacCready’s expression immediately turns deadpan, staring at him. “ _Let’s go and see_ , says the guy who just said that it could be literally any number of hostiles ready to blow us to ash.”

Adust just shrugs, already looking out past MacCready. “We don’t have to fight them. Just... recon. Get in there quietly, see what’s going on, and get out, like we said we would. Let’s go.”

He ducks the corner right as he hears MacCready give a long-suffering sigh, but then there’s footsteps right behind him regardless. They stick low and close to the walls, keep an eye out on the rooftops of the buildings around them, put themselves on high alert. So far the laserfire only seems to be coming from one place, but snipers are quiet, and patient. The last thing they need is to be caught off guard by anything.

As expected, they seem to be the only ones in Cambridge so far besides whatever trouble is up ahead. The streets of the old campus are empty, which is definitely better than the alternative — at least until they carry forwards and hear the sound of footsteps, of bare feet hitting pavement en masse, and a familiar snarling barely-human roar in the not-so-distant distance. Immediately, Adust surges up to the nearest building, back pressed flat against the wall and MacCready dashing right after him, breathing hard. (He doesn’t miss the way MacCready’s eyes had widened, posture tense, adam’s apple bobbing. The way he does every time they deal with ghouls. But now isn’t the time to ask about that, so —)

“Are they coming this way?” Adust says low, trying to peer out beyond the crumbling brick wall, but there’s a truck obstructing his view. “Seems like the shots are coming from the police station.”

“Not like I can see through  _walls_ , but if the noises mean anything, they’re not coming  _here_  yet.” MacCready bites out, looking more than uncomfortable with this situation. “I can’t see crap from here — “

Neither can Adust. He frowns, trying to find a way around without drawing any attention to each other, before looking upwards and realizing something.

“Mac,” Adust says quietly, “Think you could boost me?”

MacCready blinks. Then looks up. Watches the realization sink in, of the building they’re leaned up against, of the crumbled wall and the exposed second floor, and the felled-in ceiling that leads to the roof.

MacCready nods, wordlessly, and bridges his fingers together as he stoops down to help Adust up. Adust steps lightly — thankful again that they’re both roughly the same in build and weight, though he’s got a little more meat on his bones than MacCready does — and hauls himself up onto the crumbled wall with practiced ease. Plants his feet firm before extending a hand to help MacCready up too, before they both clamber up the fallen brick and pipes to the second floor, and then hauling themselves up on the roof.

The view is clearer and the air frigid and immediately Adust is grateful that they’d found higher ground, and that ferals don’t know how to climb.

The Cambridge police station is  _completely_  overrun with feral ghouls. They’re running by the dozens from god knows where, all snarling maws and irradiated limbs and all breaking into animalistic sprints towards the barricaded station, where there’s just a sole figure in power armour and a laser rifle defending against them all. Adust can just barely make out the forms of another two people too, by the station’s doors  — one on the ground and the other holding them. Injured, possibly. Dead, definitely, if the ghouls aren’t taken down.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that there’s more ghouls than one man, power armour or not, could possibly handle. If they don’t act fast, the station will be overrun. Mouth in a thin, grim line, Adust immediately gets down, and holds his sniper rifle up. And beside him, almost immediately, MacCready gets down too, holding his own rifle up, mouth in a familiar disapproving cat-like scowl.

“ _Just some recon_ , he said.  _Won’t take long_ , he said.” MacCready grumbles under his breath, loud enough for Adust to hear and definitely on purpose, and Adust wonders what it means that he finds himself more relieved and smiling in gratitude than annoyed or angry in any capacity. Especially not when MacCready fires the first shot and downs a ghoul right by a truck.

They get down to it. Adust has no idea where all these ghouls have been hiding — the last time they’d passed through Cambridge they hadn’t run into any but a few, but now there seems to be an almost neverending number sprinting towards the station. At least between the three of them it seems to be easier bringing them down, and person in the power armour having looked confusedly around for the source of the helping shots before falling back to defending the station, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s only so much ammo between the three of them and only so much daylight.

In the end, they both reach the same idea at the same time. The person in the power armour’s shots are a lot less accurate than either of their own — understandable given the amount of ghouls and the one gun to take them all — and one too many shots hit one of the trucks a small distance from the entrance to the station.

The ground  _shakes_  as it explodes, a fusion explosion that rocks the earth just a little, fireball bright enough that Adust and MacCready have to turn away for a moment. And then they turn back, and find this — the person in the power armour still standing, barely scratched by the explosion behind the layer of steel, and ghoul body parts spilled across the pavement. 

Almost immediately, Adust and MacCready share a look.

“I’ll get the trucks, you handle the tin can.” MacCready says, Adust nodding in affirmation, and the both of them putting their eyes back on their scopes.

MacCready starts firing at the vehicles, at the van right outside, and Adust keeps his eyes on the power armoured person beginning to get up, heading out to start firing again. Adust doesn’t let him. Fires a shot only a few inches from the feet, sending up a kick of dirt and smoke and making the suit of power armour pause, for a fraction of a second, before Adust fires another one. Warning shots.  _Don’t move._  The person doesn’t, looking almost frantically in their direction to figure out where the shots are coming from, torn between looking and firing at the hoard of ghouls coming at them.

And then MacCready whispers  _get ready_  beside him, and Adust fires one more round just above the person’s head, close enough to make them duck, right as MacCready fires the last shot that sets off the chain reaction.

There’s barely enough time for Adust to yank MacCready to safety, behind the roof wall as the engine smokes and then  _explodes_ , setting off the other vehicles around it. Fireballs launch into the air, ghoul limbs and debris flying, and Adust barely misses a flying hubcap that slams into the wall beside them. All the cars lined up by each other going up in fire and smoke and the ground around them shakes, quakes. It’ll be a miracle if they haven’t been noticed by anyone else around — the explosions must be loud enough to hear from Sanctuary, this dead in the winter.

The cacophony of chaos dies down soon enough, though, and the two of them crawl out largely unscathed to check out the situation. From their scopes they can only see what they’ve left behind — the wreckage of cars and ghoul bodies scattered in a macabre spectacle, the air filled with the stench of smoking metal and burning, rotten flesh. The figure in power armour nowhere to be found. But Adust  _can_  see the two figures still at the station, still huddled together, and Adust starts making his way back down.

“Come on. Should be safe for us to head over now. Looked like there might be people who need a hand.”

MacCready frowns, following after and hopping down to the first floor. “Gonna play hero again?”

Adust huffs a little, slowly making his way down the ruined wall and sliding back down to the pavement. “If hero means making sure they’re alive and then dumping them onto Preston, sure.”

MacCready snickers a little at that, enough of a sound that Adust quirks a small smile, and he extends a hand, helping his partner back down, the two of them falling into step as they walk closer. The station, assuming it’s unoccupied and hasn’t already been ransacked beyond comprehension, should also have plenty of things to loot. Weapons and ammo, if they’re lucky — at least a couple more mattresses and scrap metal and whatever otherwise. If nothing else, they can at least scope it out and then send some Minutemen down to take what’s needed later. If they can rescue the two injured scavvers down by and bring them to Sanctuary, all the better. Should be easy. Daylight’s still out — they should be able to get this done and over with within the afternoon.

At least he thinks so, until Adust peers up, towards the station, and sees the person in power armour coming up behind the shelter of a phone booth, looking directly at them.

Adust freezes. MacCready does the same immediately after. The suit of power armour approaches where they are, slowly, smart enough to look around to make sure there aren’t anymore hostile surprises waiting, but keeps the laser rifle low, big metal finger off the trigger. Comes about halfway to them before stopping, looking right up at them. MacCready, however, hasn’t taken  _his_  finger off the trigger of his rifle, beside him. And Adust hasn’t either.

The figure takes another step forward. MacCready’s rifle is immediately up in the air, cocked and ready, and Adust mentally counts the bullets in the 10mm at his hip.

“Don’t take another step, or we’ll blow your friggin’ head off.” MacCready snarls, tone immediately threatening, somehow looking fuckoff  _dangerous_  even under the layers of clothes. Surprises even Adust, and it makes something at the back of his mind remember that the man used to run for the Gunners. “Stay in line and everything will be a-okay, got it?”

“Stand down, civilian. I mean you no harm. I suggest you lower the weapon before you make a decision you’ll regret.” says the voice from inside the armour. Tone guarded, and wary. Strikes Adust immediately: a soldier. Military.

“Who are you.” Adust says. Doesn’t ask. Keeps his face as impassive as possible.

The power armoured person only seems to straighten up further. “I would be more than happy to tell you who I am, if you would just put down your weaponry.”

“I’ll lower my weapon when i know you’re not gonna put a bullet in our heads.” MacCready growls lowly back. “Now who are you, and what the  _hell_  is the Brotherhood doing all the way out in the Commonwealth?”

That.  _That_  makes Adust pause, suddenly, looking at MacCready.  _Brotherhood?_

The figure in the power armour is unreadable, behind all the steel. At least until they sigh, harsh. Lowers their laser rifle.

And lifts the helmet off.

“I’m Paladin Danse, registration DN-407P of the Brotherhood of Steel, Commanding Officer of Recon Squad Gladius.” says the man beneath the steel, staring them down. “Now, who are  _you_?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inb4 maccready says "i'm your huckleberry"  
> hey hi i'm still alive can you bee leaf it, i sure can't
> 
> i'd apologize for taking so long w this but honestly a lot has been happening, real life got in the way etc etc i love this fic and i DO aim to finish it, but in the meantime i had to go through one of the toughest semesters in my course @ uni and there's a lot more to go through, just started therapy bc brainweirds + health concerns, the works
> 
> so idk this chapter isn't the best but at this point between perfection and finished i'd rather hit the latter BUT GOOD NEWS Share Your Road officially has a proper plotline now ! i'm not just winging and swinging blindly anymore ! hopefully this will keep me on track. if it doesn't and i throw in the towel with this series someday, at least know i'll try to put up the skeleton drafts so you guys will know how it at least ends. also: all the previous chapters have been edited and revamped to make a little more sense, so if you wanna reread SYR to remember what's happened so far, now would be the time (though fair is fair i didn't edit like a WHOLE LOT, just some parts so things make sense later on.) also: so many references in SYR gotta catch em all folks
> 
> tldr life's been doing its life thing, i'm trying to get back on track, i appreciate all of you who continue to read this somehow despite my seven month hiatus and i thank any of you who've gotten this far, all those who support me and all who will continue to. its an honour ! every kudos and comment makes my shrivelled heart a lil more healthy. find me on [tumblr](keycchan.tumblr.com), say hi!
> 
> might i also recommend [Beatitudes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489602) for a read? it's one of the most beautiful gen fallout 4 fics i've ever had the privilege of reading, absolutely hop on over, read through, and give the author a huge kudos and a big ol comment, it deserves all that and more.
> 
>  **edit:** a beloved sunshine friend of mine Ida drew [this BEAUTIFUL piece](http://flannelshirtandjeans.tumblr.com/post/176437464964) from this chapter !!! thank you so much !!!!!!!!!


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